


Want Something

by CrashDevil (cjdevlin19)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Suicide, Death of a Child (past), F/M, Murder, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-02-28 11:07:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 51,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13270158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjdevlin19/pseuds/CrashDevil
Summary: Reader is an American ex-pat working with Scotland Yard as an Inspector, who frustrates and intrigues Sherlock from the get. She's clever, she's pretty and she's complicated, but is that enough to keep his interest?





	1. Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so the reader is a bit of a Mary Sue at the beginning. Gotta be near perfect to be a match for Sherlock, but she doesn't stay that way throughout. She is damaged.
> 
> So, triggers for upcoming chapters... depression, self-harm, drug use (Sherlock's), the death of a toddler, an eating disorder, an attempted suicide in the past and some murders...

Sherlock and John rushed under the caution tape and toward the body. No one moved to stop them. Anyone who'd been assigned to Homicide Division more than a few weeks knew who they were. A short (y/h/c) woman in a long black jacket stepped in front of them before they could make it to the victim, though. "Who are you?" She asked, a strong Irish accent on her words.

"Sherlock Holmes. John Watson. DI Lestrade called, said I might be interested in your murder." Sherlock answered, curtly, trying to maneuver around her to the dead man lying on the grass.

"Well, this ain' Lestrade's case. Someone get these civilians outta 'ere!" She yelled. John bristled a little at 'civilians', but maintained his posture.

"So, you _don't_ want to solve this man's murder?" Sherlock pressed as John shook his head.

"I solved many cases before ya muscled yer way inta meh crime scene, Mr. Holmes. I don't need yer help."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock seemed genuinely confused.

"Funny. Neither yer website nor Dr. Watson's blog mention ya bein' hard of hearin', Mr. Holmes, but I can sign it fer ya, if ya like. 'I don't need yer help'." She carefully signed each word as she spoke it, slowly, as if he were a child.

Sherlock scoffed. "So, you think your Scotland Yard-trained mind can solve this case anywhere near as quickly or accurately as I could?"

"Like I said, I've been on yer website. A child, with the proper training, could do what you do."

Sherlock looked at John in disbelief. "That's not really fair to say if you haven't seen him work." John defended.

"I've heard the stories. I'm not impressed. But let me impress _you_ , Mr. Holmes." The woman took a step closer to him and looked him up and down. "Yer fingernails are filed, but not properly manicured. Says you don't care about yer appearance, but the functionality of maintenance. Yer outfit screams money, which goes well with the fact that you've never held down a real payin' job. Yer an arrogant bastard, always assuming yer the most intelligent person in the room and usually yer right. But people just don't like you, maybe because you belittle them with every breath, but you like to think that they just can't handle how clever you are, an ideal you adopted when you were young, constantly teased and friendless. Emotions are pointless. What's the use in caring? Obviously, yer not very good at not caring because you've got a friend here. Been friends with Watson since before you faked yer death, so you obviously care 'bout him. So, not carin's unnatural. It was pushed upon you. Someone told you it was weakness to care. An older male, but not yer father, he wasn't a big influence. A big brother. But he's not very good at not caring, either, judgin' by the fact that yer mobile keeps buzzing, likely in response to the large gash on yer head that you've tried to comb your hair to cover. You are purposely making him worry, out of some childish sibling rivalry." She stepped back and looked at John, who was staring at her. "Think that's enough to impress?"

"Someone fed you that information. Or you read it somewhere, in one of those tabloids." Sherlock answered.

"Do ya honestly think yer the only detective that smart?" She asked.

"Not in the world, no. Don't be absurd. But definitely the only one in Europe." He responded.

"And if I were to say I wasn't from Europe?" She asked.

"Impossible. Your mannerisms and style of dress speak to a West Irish upbringing. Maybe Dublin, but more likely Newbridge. Not to mention your-"

"Obsessively researched, from syntax to phonemes, Dublin accent?" She interrupted.

Sherlock blanched. "Researched?"

"Oh, aye." Her eyes sparkled as she smirked at him.

"Then, where are you from?" John asked, honestly curious as the inspector started walking them back to the crime scene tape.

"Well, I came here on a student visa when I was 18 to study at Cambridge."

"From where?" Sherlock insisted.

"Oh, not too far. Just right on the other side of the pond." The woman dropped her accent. "You might be the smartest person born in the U.K., Sherlock, but this American ex-pat is pretty clever, too. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Why? Why would you fake it?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrows coming together.

She sighed, deeply. "That was actually Detective Inspector Lestrade's idea. When I was starting through training, I was getting a lot of flack from the people I was working with. No one was cooperating with me because I was an 'intruder'. Lestrade was doing a lecture series, at the time. He noticed, too. He came to me and said, 'You're clever, I can tell. You've got the makings of a great DI, but you'll never do anything beyond traffic if you can't get people to cooperate with you'." She did a spot-on impersonation of Lestrade, which impressed John. "I asked him what I could do. He told me there was nothing I could do then, except practice. My last name is already 'Murphy', so all I had to do was find a Dubliner to talk to me and Lestrade got my Chiefs to go along with it when I transferred."

John seemed amused as Inspector Murphy pushed Sherlock under the tape. "Did Lestrade give you the information about me?" Sherlock asked. The inspector laughed.

"He didn't need to!" She said, giving him another push.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Several hours later, Sherlock was playing loud, discordant notes on his violin, staring out the window of 221B at Baker Street below. "Are you still on about the American Inspector?" John asked, wincing.

"I should've known, John. It was so obvious." He groaned as he pulled the bow across the strings. "American Sign Language. She signed in ASL, rather than English Exact. I should have known!"

"I didn't think sign language was something you cared to know about, Sherlock. Like the solar system. Why would it matter, to you?" John offered.

"It's a useful skill. There are plenty hard of hearing homeless in my network, John. I should have caught it." Sherlock said, setting his violin down and walking over to grab his coat. "I'm going for a walk." He grumbled, grabbing his scarf.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock was sitting next to the fireplace in an upscale tavern, his third glass of Scotch resting on the arm of the chair, when you walked in. He barely noticed when you took the chair beside his, too entranced by the liquor in his veins and the fire in front of him. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed ya earlier, Mr. Holmes. I couldn't think of a better way to impress ya than to show off a bit at yer expense."

The flawlessness of your Irish accent wafted over his eardrums and Sherlock grimaced. "If you really must speak to me, Inspector Murphy, please do so in your native accent. Every word out of your mouth is a falsehood, otherwise."

You smiled and leaned forward. "Sorry. I've been doing it for so many years, it's kind of hard to turn off sometimes. I'm off duty, now, though, Mr. Holmes. So, if you wanted, you could call me 'y/n'."

He turned his head, slightly, to look at you. You were wearing make-up but nothing showy, just enough to accentuate your features. You had on a long-sleeved light green blouse, with the top 3 buttons undone, modest but just a bit revealing, and your black skirt and open-toed heels showed just enough of your sculpted calves. If he'd cared to notice, and he most certainly didn't, Sherlock might have thought you beautiful. "Why would I do that?"

Your smile didn't falter as you shook your head at him. "We're both incredibly intelligent people, Holmes. There is no reason for you to hold animosity toward me because I embarrassed you in front of your friend. I'm sure, if I hadn't been pushing you out of the crime scene, you would have realized I used ASL instead of English Exact and you could have told _me_ where I'm from."

You leaned forward and placed your hand on his knee, eliciting a jump and a shocked stare from Sherlock. He had a terrible poker face when inebriated. "I want us to be friends, Sherlock Holmes. There aren't very many geniuses who use their gifts to solve crimes. We're two of a kind. I fancy myself your sentimental American counterpart, and I'm fairly certain Greg sent you to my crime scene so we could meet, because he knows that. Just give it a thought." You said, before standing up.

Sherlock let you get a few steps away before he turned slightly and said, "It was his wife. He was sleeping with the nanny, so she poisoned him. She'll be taking the mistress out, as well."

"I know." You said, turning back. "I arrested her five minutes after you left. Great minds." You smirked as you walked away toward the bar.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"She said she wants to be my friend, that crime-solving geniuses should stick together. As if our similarly brilliant I.Q.s mean anything." Sherlock gestured at John with his scimitar. " _Your_ I.Q. is nowhere near mine, but you're the only friend I've ever had."

John just smirked, rather than feel offended. He'd been on the phone to Lestrade while Sherlock was on his whiskey-filled walk.

**_"So, how did Sherlock fair against my favourite Inspector?"_** **_Lestrade_** **_asked._**

**_John's eyes widened. "You did! You set him up to be torn apart by her!"_ **

**_"Oh, don't make it sound so brutal, John."_ **

**_"He tortured me for 2 hours with angry violin music and then, he took an angry walk that he still hasn't returned from. Brutal enough for you, Greg?"_ **

**_Lestrade's_** **_laughter rang through the phone. "That's perfect!"_**

**_"Why?" John asked, not comprehending why anyone who claimed to be a 'friend' would put someone through that. "Why would you set him up? I thought you liked Sherlock?"_ **

**_"I do like him, and I'd like other blokes to like him, too. But people can't get past how inhuman he seems. You've been_** **_workin' on it, I can tell, with the social situations. At least, now, he can tell when he's cocked up a conversation with his arrogance. I thought I'd take it to the next step."_**

**_"Which is?"_ **

**_"The next step is getting people to see that he isn't a misanthropic_** **_arse. We gotta show people that other people like him. Specifically, a woman can like him."_**

**_"Well, why a woman? Why not me and you? Or Molly if it has to be a woman? Mrs. Hudson likes him."_ **

**_"Hudson's his landlady, she doesn't count. And Hooper is desperate, evidenced by her dating Moriarty while he was pretending to be gay. People assume I've just gotten used to it and you, they're_** **_callin' you Stockholm."_** **_John shook his head. Of course, they were._** **_"But an intelligent, attractive Inspector with more honours in her jacket than I can count? Someone who has options? That might change people's minds. Besides, maybe he'll be less of a tight_** **_arse_** **_if he's_** **_havin' it off with someone."_**

**_John rubbed his fingers over his eyes."I can't imagine Sherlock even_** **_snogging_** **_someone."_**

**_"Well, we know he's got, at least, the basics of male instincts, after Irene Adler. Hopefully, we can get y/n to bring those out. She's gotten him angry, which means she's gotten in his head. She's following my plan without even knowing it. Brilliant."_ **

"So, are you gonna take her up on it, her offer of friendship?" John asked.

"Why should I?"

"Well, I think havin' another friend might help you." John said, looking at his tea. Make it seem beneficial to Sherlock and he might accept.

"How?"

"I don't know. Socially? I'm your _only_ friend, Sherlock. Your words. I'm the only friend you've ever had. And now, there's this super genius inspector who wants to be your friend. I think you should say 'yes'."

"You aren't just saying this because she's attractive and you want to use my friendship to establish your own relationship with her, are you?"

John smiled, then subtly cleared his throat. "Oh, you noticed she's attractive, did you?"

"Not immediately, no. The uniform impedes any attractiveness she may have. But at the bar... there was no hiding it." Sherlock said, his voice trailing off a bit as he stared at the wall.

"I have no interest in her, Sherlock. She really isn't my type, and I'm engaged." John answered the earlier question, standing to refresh his tea.

"All right, then. I suppose I'll give her an opportunity. One."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock rushed into Metro and stepped off of the lift, heading toward the offices. "Freak! Lestrade's not in!" Sally called, sticking her head out of her cubicle.

"That's fine. Not here for him." He said, moving left down a hallway away from Sally. You looked up as he walked into your office and sat down without a greeting. "I've decided to give friendship a chance."

You set down the case file you were reading. "Really?"

"I've been told it might be beneficial for me to have another friend."

You smirked. "So, Doctor Watson is on my side, eh?"

"It would appear so. I wish you wouldn't do that." He responded, quickly.

"What?"

"Speak that way. It's a lie."

You gave a small sigh. "This is the one place where I absolutely have to speak this way. Sorry, you'll have to put up with the lie."

He leaned forward, adjusting his coat collar. "I looked you up. You have a handful of honours. You shouldn't be afraid to tell them where you're from."

"It's human nature, Sherlock. When yer flyin' high above 'em, everyone below can't wait to see you fall." You bit the inside of your lip before putting it into terms that related to him. "Why do you think it was so easy fer everyone to believe you were a fraud with barely any evidence?"

"But how would the fact that you were born in North Carolina help them fell you?"

"Not the birthplace, Sherlock, the _lie_... and the fact that Lestrade helped organise it. If I lied about that, what else am I lyin' about? And how did I get Lestrade to help me? I don't need that in my career or my life, Sherlock. You'll have to deal with it." You whispered.

Sherlock nodded. "You went a little Welsh there, at the end. You may want to work on that. Dinner. 7 pm. 221 B Baker Street. Bring wine." He said, standing.

"Of course."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock was certain that friends invited other friends to dinner, but based on Watson's reaction when he told him that he'd invited her, Sherlock was afraid he'd perpetrated some faux pas. He sat on the chair, staring at the wall as John walked in, trying to figure out what he'd done wrong. "She's not here, yet, then?" John asked, heading for the kitchen. Sherlock ignored him, as a knock came to the door.

Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs to the living room with you following close behind. You smiled as you handed the bottle of Merlot to Sherlock. "You need to learn to answer your door, Sherlock. It's not my job, you know?" Mrs. Hudson chided, not nearly as upset about it as she would want him to believe.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Had my hands full." John called.

"It's so nice to meet you, Inspector." Mrs. Hudson smiled, patting your arm before walking out.

"This is a good year." Sherlock said, looking down at the wine, ignoring Mrs. Hudson completely.

"You seem surprised." You said, American accent completely undisguised.

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Pleasantly." He took it to the kitchen to breath. "We got Chinese takeaway. Hope you don't mind."

You followed him into the kitchen, taking in very bit of the flat that you could see. "Not at all. I didn't expect you to cook for me, Sherlock."

"Sherlock can't even cook for himself! If it weren't for the takeaways and Mrs. Hudson, he'd've starved months ago." John gave a deep laugh.

"Not 'can't', John, 'won't'. Learn the difference."

"And don't hope for a cuppa. Only time he's ever made drinks, he made me a coffee and tried to poison me." John finished.

You laughed, leaning against the counter. "Don't be so dramatic, Doctor!"

"I _wish_ I was being dramatic! He thought this bloke's sugar was laced with a hallucinogenic and, to test this, he made me a cup of coffee with about 4 sugars. I drink coffee blond, no sugar, but I thought he'd made the coffee as an apology, so I drank it, anyway! Didn't know he was just up to his same selfish ends."

"I knew I'd been poisoned. The only thing that our client and I consumed that John had not was the sugar." Sherlock shrugged. "I knew he wouldn't drink it if he knew it might be poisoned, so I let him believe I was attempting to do something nice for him. How could I have known it was in the air, not the coffee?"

You laughed, eyes sparkling. "So, now I know how you treat your friends, Sherlock!"

"Don't let me scare you away, Inspector." John turned, pulling down wine glasses from a cabinet.

"Oh, no, I'm not going anywhere." You said, turning those sparkling eyes on Sherlock. For some reason he couldn't place, the look made Sherlock feel uncomfortable, so he looked away to the takeaway bag.

"It seems John forgot the chopsticks. I have a few sets I was given as a gift... somewhere in my room. I'll go find them."

John looked after him as he walked out, before turning to you. "It's strange. I've only ever seen him act this way around one other person."

"Irene Adler?" You asked, knowingly. John nodded, opening his mouth to ask 'how', but you cut him off. "Don't ask how I know, John. It's insulting. I really am as smart as I claim. Unlike Sherlock, however, I understand social cues." You threw a look over your shoulder to make sure you were still alone before turning your intense gaze back onto the doctor. "When Greg started to chat Sherlock up to me, calling him the smartest man he'd ever met and saying he'd solved some of his biggest cases because of Sherlock. When he encouraged me to read 'The Science of Deduction' so I could see Sherlock's brilliance. Then, having me read _your_ blog to see him as human."

You shook your head, a bit of irritation seeping into your posture. "I'm not the type to be set up like this, Dr. Watson, but damn it if Gregory Lestrade doesn't know what I like. When you guys pushed onto my scene and I saw those blue eyes and those sharp cheekbones... I had to go along with it, didn't I? That, and the eventual bragging rights of turning Sherlock Holmes into a real boy instead of a robot. But do _not_ try to play me." John was speechless as you pulled 3 sets of chopsticks from your sleeve and tucked them into the plastic bag. He hadn't seen your hand go anywhere near the takeaway bag. "Sherlock, there are chopsticks in this bag!" You called.

Sherlock walked back into the kitchen a moment later and smiled, slightly, confused. "I did not see them."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You sat crossed-legged on the sofa and listened to Sherlock play his violin. You recognized it as Beethoven, but you didn't know the name of the piece. John sat in his chair to the side of the fireplace with a laptop in front of him. "If you call me 'American' or allude, at all, to my nationality in your blog, I will skin you alive, John." You warned, your eyes focused on Sherlock's fingers on the strings.

"I had no plan to do that." John said, but you heard the distinct sound of the backspace button clicking.

You closed your eyes and let the music wash over you. It was a relaxing song and had lulled you into a place of security that you didn't often occupy. "You are really so amazing with that instrument, Sherlock." You praised, snapping your eyes open to catch his. "I've always wanted to learn but it was too expensive for my parents when I was young and too time-consuming now."

"You're just lounging on the chair, doing nothing. What's stopping you from learning now?" Sherlock asked, pulling the bow away from the strings.

You sat straight up and and blinked at him. "Lack of a violin, bow, instructor and instruction manual?"

Sherlock walked over and handed you the violin and bow. "Violin. Bow. Instructor." He pointed to himself, then tapped his temple. "Instruction manual."

"You're going to teach me to play?" You asked. 'Shocked' wasn't the right word.

"You're fairly clever. I don't see why not."

John shut his laptop and stood. "I don't think I could handle listening to a violin lesson. I think I'll head home to my fiancée. Good night."

"Good night, John." You said, admiring the instrument in your hands.

"Yes, good night, John." Sherlock said, not even looking away from you as his best friend walked out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You looked disdainfully down at the violin as you placed it gingerly in its case 2 hours later. "You know, I didn't expect it to be easy, but... I didn't expect to fail so completely at it, either."

"Well, then, we will have to spend our free time working on it." He volunteered. You turned to him, eyebrows trying to touch the ceiling. You'd expected that your failure would put him off from trying to teach you. He was notoriously averse to idiots and your fingers were dumb. "When neither of us have a case to work, we will have lessons. We'll have you playing- what do you Americans and fake Irish call it?- fiddle in no time." Sherlock said, walking you to the door.

"Do I really seem the type to enjoy fiddle music, Sherlock?"

"You're a North Carolina native. It seems a fair assumption that you grew up listening to Country music."

You smirked up at him as you pulled your coat up your arms. "I wanted to be a Country singer when I was young, Sherlock. I definitely woulda had a fiddle player in my band." You said, fixing a heavy Southern accent to your words. You loved accents. You'd always been so good with them. "Thank you for a nice evening. And thank you for signing on to teach me violin. Sorry for the horrendous playing. I will... text you."

"Of course. Next time."

"'Til next time, Sherlock."

~~~~~~~

Sherlock sat cross-legged in his chair, moving through his Mind Palace. Something wasn't right. As he moved through his extraordinary mind, he knew that something was off, but he couldn't put his finger on it. "Where's the Woman?" Mycroft's voice rang out.

Sherlock looked around. The Woman was usually readily available to him in his Mind Palace, especially when he was alone. He opened the door closest to him and walked in. Irene Adler smiled up at him from a chair, legs crossed to cover her womanhood, but bare nonetheless. "Why are you locked away in here?"

"You put me here, Sherlock. You locked me away."

"I did no such thing. Why would I do that?"

"There's not enough room for both of us." An unmistakable American accent behind him said.

He turned, quickly, blinking at y/n in confusion. "I didn't add you to my Mind Palace. Why are you here?"

"Of course, you added me, Sherlock. I didn't add myself." She leaned against the door, looking simultaneously predatory and innocent. How did she pull _that_ off? "I think it was about the time when you were pressed up against my back, trying to teach me proper form. I don't think you even did it on purpose."

"But then, the American was here and it's far too distracting to have one attractive woman running free in your Mind, you couldn't very well have _two_." Irene said, standing.

"So, I locked _you_ away?" Sherlock asked, in disbelief.

"You see her. You've befriended her." Irene dragged her hand across Sherlock's shoulders.

"I'm more real than she is. You haven't seen her in quite some time, now. I'm more tangible... literally."

"I don't want you here... and I don't care how touchable you are." Sherlock growled at the Inspector's facsimile.

"Except you do, Sherlock... and now, it's time to ask yourself, what's so bad about being a _man_?" Irene growled in response.

"I don't need to reduce myself to base animal instincts to be a man." He was irritated. His own mind was irritating him. "And if I were ever to lower myself to that sort of... action, I would do so with you, Irene."

"No, that's not what makes you a man, but it doesn't hurt. And... not that you have any problem fraternizing with criminals, but-" Irene started.

"If anyone found out you'd lost your virginity to a prostitute, one working with Moriarty, at that, the people who care for you would never have let you live that down." Y/n filled in.

"Dominatrix." Irene corrected, before turning to Sherlock. "And while you have no shame about most things in your life, Sherlock, your sexual proclivities are the one exception." She finished.

"I have no sexual proclivities! I haven't had an _unwanted_ physical reaction to the presence of a female since I was in puberty."

"He didn't even get hard when I was in my battle armour." Irene confirmed with a nod.

"But a semi-clever American struggling to play violin, whining because she needs your help? That's what gets past your defenses?" Mycroft's voice berated from somewhere above him.

"Did not!" Sherlock insisted.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but it did. You still... are." Irene said, nodding toward his crotch.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at his lap. "Damn!" He whispered, angry with himself. He stood up and walked to the bathroom for a shower.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You walked purposefully into Greg's office and shut the door. "You are a complete arsehole, Greg." You whispered, leaning over his desk.

He smiled up at you. "I take it that the violin lesson went well? Did he let you play with his bow?" He teased.

"You, of all people, should know that Sherlock Holmes is a sociopath. 'e doesn't like women... or men." You tried to keep your disappointment out of your voice. You were certain you'd botched it. Sherlock had gotten up close and personal while teaching you to fail miserably at the violin, but you hadn't even gotten the smallest hint of interest from him. "He doesn't do relationships. And yer little plan to get 'im an' me together is ridiculous."

"I'm not so sure. I never heard of Sherlock letting anyone try to play his violin, let alone _teaching_ anyone."

"He's only givin' me lessons because he thinks I'm clever enough to pick it up quick." You defended. You'd been repeating that to yourself, as a mantra, since you left Baker Street.

"Lessons, then? More than one?" Greg gloated, picking up his cup of coffee.

"Yes, lessons... that neither of us'll pro'lly have time for. We've both got cases and... I've got that trip home in a couple weeks." You were uncomfortable with the shine in Lestrade's eyes. He was so certain that he was right and, apparently, nothing you could say would change his mind.

"Oh, so you don't think _you_ could pull it off?"

You growled. "Oi, don't try to manipulate me, Greg. No one could pull that off. If you'd seen how awkward 'e was last night... he don't do relationships. 'e barely does friendships. I'm throwin' in the towel for anythin' more than that."

"Well, I wouldn't give up hope, you know. He _is_ human, after all."

"Stop pushin' this so hard, Greg. At least, Sherlock's got another friend out of it." You sighed, pulling the door open and heading toward your own office.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock sat in his chair, staring ahead at the kitchen with his fingers absentmindedly tapping on his mobile phone. Tap, tap-tap, tap. Tap-tap, tap, tap-tap. Tap, tap-tap, tap. "Are you all right, Sherlock?" Mary asked, looking over from the table.

"I'm fine, Mary. Why do you ask?" He replied, shortly, still staring ahead.

"If you pound on that mobile any harder, you're gonna break it." John answered.

"Are you anxious for a call or something?" Mary asked, standing to put the electric kettle on.

"Oh!" John exclaimed, knowingly. He turned to his fiancée. "Y/n said she'd text him when she had time to spare. He's just eager to get another... violin lesson underway."

"She has a case and I _don't_ , John. There is something very wrong with that." Sherlock snapped.

John and Mary shared a look and smiled, so John pulled out his mobile and texted Lestrade. **'SH going nuts 4 your American. Free her up, if you can.'**

**'See what I can do.'**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Why am I bein' pulled from this case?" You demanded, standing in front of your Chief Super.

"You're going on holiday soon. It's better to pass yer caseload off to a DI who won't be gone for an extended period of time." He responded, almost boredly.

"Yes, sir." You said, dejectedly.

Your phone was out of your jacket before you even made it back to your office. **'Just got pulled off of my case, so I am riding a desk until I go on holiday. You have anything interesting I can help with?'** You texted Sherlock. Not that you wanted to see him again, or anything, just hate to be bored.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As it buzzed under him, Sherlock pulled his phone out from under the cushion of the sofa where he'd put it to try and focus on something else. "Aha! She doesn't have a case, either!" He exclaimed, before tapping out **'No cases. All too easy. Was going to steal** **urs. I'll take it from** **Lestrade, now.** '

Mary looked over from the desk. John had left to see a patient at the clinic, but she'd decided to stick around to keep an eye on Sherlock. "Sherlock, what is the deal with you and this American? Do you fancy her, or something?"

Sherlock looked stunned. "'Fancy' is a bit strong. She serves the same general purpose that John does and I don't fancy him."

Mary chuckled. "John's not as smart as she is, and far less pretty."

"If you'd have me admit she's pretty, I won't argue, Mary, but I don't... _fancy_ people. The Woman caught my attention but it was short lived and mostly intellectual. She challenged me. Y/n... no challenge there."

"So, you don't want anything besides friendship from this woman?" Mary asked, softly.

"Exactly."

"Well, I've never seen you so anxious for one of John's texts before. Or anyone's actually." She said, standing.

Mary was almost to the stairs, pulling her coat down her arms, when Sherlock blurted out, "She's taken over The Woman's place in my Mind Palace." Mary turned on her heels, eyes widened a bit. "How do I fix that?" Sherlock finished.

"Oh, Sherlock. You do fancy her." She turned and walked over to where he was sitting, setting her hand on his shoulder. "You can't fix that. There's nothing broken."

Sherlock's phone went off again. **'I suppose, since we're both not busy, that suggesting we go to lunch wouldn't be completely out of line.'**

Sherlock turned the phone so Mary could see. "I don't know what to say to this."

"Do you want to eat something?" Sherlock shrugged. He never really _wanted_ to eat anything. "Do you want to see her? Then say 'yes' and suggest a restaurant, Sherlock. She's a clever girl, I'm sure she can help you figure yourself out better than I can."

Mary leaned down and kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "Good luck, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed and stared at his phone as she left. "Damn."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You and Sherlock sat across from each other in a dimly lit restaurant, picking at your salads. **_"Small talk's not hard. Start talking. Ask her a question based on what you know of her."_** Mary coached in his mind.

"So... you are going on holiday soon? Back home, then?" Sherlock asked, setting his salad fork along the side of the bowl.

You smiled, tightly, and swallowed a mouthful of spinach before replying. "Yes. Back to Florida. Figured I'd go home and spend my birthday with the family for the first time since I turned 18."

"It's so late in the year. I would think you'd want to wait until Thanksgiving or Christmas."

"I've tried that. I went home every Christmas when I was at university. But Thanksgiving and Christmas with my family is just presents and arguments. I'd rather ignore Thanksgiving entirely, 'cause it's all just an excuse to eat way too much and pretend to give a damn." You shrugged. "And I would rather spend my Christmas watching Doctor Who than sitting in my parents' living room, forcing holiday cheer. If I go out there for my birthday, no one will have to pretend to be nice to anyone except me."

"Clever. So, what's the make-up of your family? More geniuses?"

"Hardly. My father was U.S. Army for 23 years, a Ranger, but he's smarter than my mum, who's been a shop clerk her whole life. She worked at a petrol station when I was a child, then Wal-mart for 13 years. My oldest sister has a Master's Degree, but she had to work very hard to get it. And my middle sister dropped out of her online college 12 credits shy of her A.A. Jess, the oldest, is the only one I can stand, but she always seems to make me question every decision I've ever made. Hopefully, it won't be so bad now that I haven't seen them in 3 years."

"Sounds like you need an intelligence buffer. Someone to bring the median IQ up to... above average." He wasn't sure where the suggestion came from but once it was out of his mouth, he had to stand by it.

Your eyebrows came together. "Are you angling to get yourself invited to go on holiday with me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock seemed to think about it for a second, but he already knew there was no backing down. "I suppose I am."

"That's a bit weird." You reached forward and picked up your glass to take a drink of your water. "I mean, we're new friends. I might take a new boyfriend home to meet the family, but not just a friend. I mean, I've known Greg Lestrade for years and he hasn't met my family."

"A boyfriend?"

"Yeah. A bloke who enjoys my company and takes me out to fancy restaurants, tells me I'm pretty and treats me nice." You said, sarcastically, with a roll of your eyes.

**_"Fake it 'til you make it, Sherlock."_** Mary's voice said, in his mind.

He forced a smirk. "A fancy restaurant? Like this one?" He gestured around you.

You shot him down, immediately. "This isn't a date, Sherlock."

"Why not?"

"We both have to agree that it's a date, prior to going on the date, or it's not a date." That was just common sense. "Besides, Sherlock Holmes doesn't date."

He took a deep breath and decided to play the card that hadn't really worked on Mary. "That's exactly why I have no idea what to do here." Sherlock seemed a bit shocked at the uncertainty in his voice, uncertainty that he surely hadn't intended to portray. His eyes caught yours and your throat went a bit dry. He looked away as you blinked at him. "It was easy with The Woman because she was utterly unattainable and I could just dismiss my feelings as a physical response to her aggressive sexuality, but you... you make absolutely no attempt to look alluring, yet you do." Sherlock wasn't looking directly at you, but he saw your facial expression flash from offended to flattered in a fraction of a second.

"You are so brilliant that it enrages me how you are wasting your talents on those imbeciles at Scotland Yard. And that accent-" Sherlock chose to lock eyes with you again, there. "That Irish act you put on, annoys me so damn much because even knowing it's a ruse, it is so _perfect_ that it still fools me, sometimes. And you've just told me about this group of pedestrian people, people whom I'd likely kill were I related to them, and I want to meet them because they are part of you. So... I'd like for this to be a date, and I don't know what to do about that." Sherlock finished, awkwardly, looking away from you. He focused on his salad bowl, counting the croûtons.

You took a small breath, reminding yourself of his character, that he could be faking every bit of this and, as a self-proclaimed sociopath, he likely was. Still, you couldn't help that his words had made your heart rate jump. You closed your fingers around your water glass again and took a sip of water before clearing your throat. "To answer _that_ question, you need to answer another. What do you _want_ to do?"

"I just said-"

"No. You said you don't know what to do. What do you _want_ to do? Do you want to stop feeling that way?" You shook your head a little and sighed. "Then, what you do is stop talking to me and ignore my existence. Do you want to embrace the mind-numbing craziness of something you've never experienced before? Then, ask me out on an actual date. It's all up in the air until you decide what you want, Sherlock."

Sherlock tried to swallow and was a bit perplexed that his mouth had gone dry. "I want to never think about you again." He admitted. "But the way I feel around you..."

"It's a chemical cocktail of neurotransmitters in your brain that cause feelings of lust and infatuation." You provided, but you knew that he knew the chemistry of attraction. Chemistry was his Master's major. "They're addictive. But you would know about addiction, right?"

"I'm intimately familiar with it, yes." He chuckled. "I think, though, that the rehabilitation specialists Mycroft sent me to would much rather I get addicted to norepinephrine and dopamine this time."

You smiled. "Infatuation is a great way to get your dopamine levels up. It's much more socially acceptable than what you used to do"

"Solving cases causes dopamine release." Sherlock responded.

"No, solving _puzzles_ does. If just any old case would do, you wouldn't be having lunch with me, you'd be off solving cases. Missing cats and whatnot."

"True."

"So... Sherlock..." You leaned forward. "What do you want to do?"

**_"Go on."_ ** 'Mary' urged.

Sherlock leaned forward, too. "Detective Inspector Murphy... do you have dinner plans?"

You smiled, brightly, and cursed yourself a bit for feeling the butterflies attacking your senses. "Well, Consulting Detective Holmes, I do now."

"And we both agree this is a date?" He asked for confirmation.

"Yes, Sherlock. It's a date."


	2. Holiday

"You have a date? A real, proper date?" John asked, blinking up at Sherlock from his chair next to the fireplace.

"Yes, I'm going to wear a suit and everything." Sherlock answered nonchalantly, opening an old medical text.

"Where are you taking her?" Mary asked from the desk, where she was working on the guest list for the wedding.

"There is a restaurant downtown. It's particularly difficult to get into. I got the owner's daughter off from a vehicular homicide charge. He leaves a permanent reservation on the books for me." Sherlock responded, not looking up from the book.

"Will you be picking her up? Bringing her flowers? Gonna hold the door, pull out her chair? Do you know, at all, how to date?" John asked, standing up.

"I know the basics of chivalry, John. I  _ have _ read Ovid."

Mary snorted. "She agreed to a date with Sherlock Holmes, she's obviously not wanting an Ovidian gentleman who'll help her out of the car and cut her food for her. Just be yourself."

"I still think you should bring her flowers." John said, pulling out his phone to text Lestrade.

"Noted, John. Tell Graham I said, 'Hello'."

"What's that?"

"He means Greg." Mary clarified.

"Wh-why would- what do you mean?" John finished, clearing his throat.

"You had to know I would figure it out, eventually, John." Sherlock looked up from the book. "But it was Lestrade pulling y/n from her case at the exact same time as we were discussing my lack of a distraction that made me realize. You and... Greg have been subtly manipulating the situation since I met her." Sherlock fixed his gaze to John, silently daring him to deny it.

John cleared his throat again, pushing the phone into his pocket, and nodded. "It was mostly Lestrade, but fine. We thought a girlfriend might go a long way in humanizing you. We didn't make you like her, though."

"Yes, I know. I'm not angry, John. I manipulate  _ you _ all the time." He looked back down at the book in his lap. "Just felt you should know that I was already aware of your subterfuge by the time I asked her out." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock stood in the living room of your flat, waiting for you to finish getting ready. You were almost done, putting the finishing touches on your appearance. He'd shown up early, which wasn't how he normally did things, but he was anxious. Excited? No, anxious. "I can't believe it took you so long to figure it out!" You called from your bedroom as you triple checked your hair and quadruple checked your make-up. "Though, I guess Greg was working my side a bit harder than yours."

"How long have you known?" Sherlock called back to you as he looked at the books on your bookshelf.

"The entire time, Sherlock, but don't worry, I didn't let them influence me much. What happens will happen regardless of the simpletons we surround ourselves with." You joked. You didn't actually think of Greg Lestrade or John Watson as 'simpletons', but you knew that Sherlock would find that funny. Sherlock found himself staring at a framed picture on the shelf between a cup full of pens and a Newton's Cradle clock. It was of a younger you, at least 10 years prior, and 2 women a little older than you in a bar. Someone else had been cut out of the picture, a man based on the arm still visible around your shoulder. "You've gone very quiet, Sherlock. Are you snooping?"

"I prefer the term 'investigating'."

"And what, exactly, are you investigating on my bookshelf?" You asked, walking into the living room.

"Oh, I was just trying to determine why you would have cut this man out of this picture of you and your sis-" Sherlock swallowed reflexively as he turned to look your way. You were wearing a long black skirt with a slit in the side to 3 inches above the knee, a white blouse with sheer sleeves and strappy wedge heels that added just enough height to bring you within average range. You'd chosen neutral make-up to avoid the appearance of trying too hard, but your dark red lipstick popped against the rest. 

You ignored the dumbfounded look on the Consulting Detective's face as you walked over and picked up the picture. "My ex-husband. I'd rather not talk about it right now."

"Where did you have time to be married?" He asked, his jaw hanging a bit.

"Sherlock, I'd rather not. Maybe some other time. I'm ready for dinner." You put the picture back on the shelf and smiled up at him, expectantly. He nodded and headed out to the curb to hail a cab.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The owner of the restaurant came out of his office and gushed about how amazing Sherlock was as he led you to a table under a beautiful crystal chandelier. "This is the most beautiful restaurant. I've never been in a restaurant this fancy... except that one time a chef embedded his Henkel in the owners back, but that was work." You tapped the menu folder. "Bet there aren't even prices on this menu."

"Your ex-husband never took you to good restaurants?" Sherlock asked from behind his menu, pretending that he was looking over the options.

You sighed, putting your menu on the table. "You aren't going to let this go, are you? Not until I bare my soul."

"I just think that I should know more about you than just what I've deduced, especially if I'm going to be meeting your family in 2 weeks. Nowhere in my deductions did the word 'Divorcée' come up." 

You glared at his menu and picked yours back up, taking a deep breath to prepare to show a piece of yourself to Sherlock that not very many people had seen. "His name is Mike. I met him in high school. It took me 3 years to get up the courage to even speak to him. I was very timid back then, little fat girl, didn't want to get shot down. Once I talked to him, though, everything moved very quickly. By the end of the first semester grade 12, we were engaged. By graduation, we were married. I was pregnant before I even made it to Cambridge."

The server came up and took your drink orders, which included a bottle of wine for you because you just  _ knew _ you were going to need it. "I had Arianna, my daughter, about halfway through my first year of university. She was a c-section and I was supposed to be on bed rest for a few weeks, but I had to catch up on my missed classes so I went back two days after I got out of the hospital. Mike stayed home with Arianna."

Sherlock was listening intently, with his hands clasped together in front of his mouth. The waiter brought the drinks and asked if you were ready to order, but Sherlock waved him away. "Continue."

"About halfway through my second year, she was almost one, Arianna was kidnapped." You took a drink of your wine and found an interesting spot on the flawlessly white tablecloth to focus on. "Mike had decided to just let her run around our flat by herself while he napped on the couch. Someone just walked right in while he slept and took her. Case went cold, Cambs Cops never found her. I..." You cleared your throat. "...couldn't love him anymore. He'd let the most perfect thing I have ever created be stolen, so I went icy on him. He couldn't handle the cold, so he went back to Florida. I got a lawyer to send him divorce papers and I changed my major from Medicine to Criminology."

"The police force was too inept to find your daughter, so you devote your career to them?"

"If they have a genius working with them, Sherlock, then it's less likely that someone else will have to endure what I have. And there was no other way for me to get access to the case file and evidence from my flat that day."

"You just want to solve the case? It's been years."

"I'm not hoping to  _ find _ her, Sherlock." You shook your head, trying to blink away the tears at the edge of your eyes. "But it kills me that I don't know what happened to her... not that you'd understand." You added after sneaking a look at his confused expression.

"I understand wanting to solve a case, but I suspect that's not what you're referring to."

"Brilliant deduction, Mr. Holmes." You took a deep breath and moved past the depressed feeling in your chest. "So, what about you? Why aren't you in government like your brother? Or something more befitting a man of your intelligence."

"It's all too boring, isn't it? It's all just a bunch of sitting at desks and answering phones and kissing people's bums. My mother was a mathematician, standing at a blackboard, arguing over what 'x' is. That's not my style. Boredom puts me in a dangerous state."

"Yes, I've heard. Greg said you start shooting the walls and going off with serial killers to play games with them. And that's the major difference between us, Sherlock. I don't do this to chase danger, anymore. I do this because I can't imagine doing anything else."

He shrugged. "You  _ could _ be a Consulting Detective. You could work with me and John. If we took money for the job, sometimes, we'd make a good living."

You took another drink of your wine and fidgeted in your seat as the waiter walked up. "I'm flattered and all, Sherlock, but let's see how we do with dating before we jump into business with each other." You handed your menu to the waiter and smiled, politely. "The Wellington, medium rare, roasted red potatoes and steamed broccoli on the side. Thank you."

"Filet, rare. I don't care about the sides." He said, handing his menu over. "You said you were fat in high school. How'd you lose the weight?"

"Pregnancy... and poverty. Dropped about a hundred pounds in a year, then I refused to eat... after... I was depressed, so I lost another 50 pounds there. Put on 30 in lean muscle once I started working out and taking care of myself."

"So, you used to weigh 260?" 

You scoffed. "Yes, Sherlock.  _ Years _ ago, I weighed 250." You corrected. "Is that important?"

"Is there a family history of obesity?"

"There's an  _ American _ history of obesity." You said, snarkily.

"But specifically, in your family, is there a history?"

You sighed and decided to give in to his questioning. "Yes. Both sides."

"Heart disease? Diabetes?"

"Why are you taking my medical history?"

"Just curious. Heart disease?"

"Only related to obesity, Sherlock. We're a family of fat people whose fat clogs their coronary arteries and the carbohydrate-dense diets cause insulin-resistance that turns into diabetes."

"That's preventable."

"That's  _ prevented _ . I've got a clean ticket, Sherlock. Took a full exam just in June. Psych and soma, all healthy."

"That's good." Sherlock said, putting on his pensive face as he ran calculations in his head about obesity and heart disease.

"What, exactly, was that about, Holmes?" 

"Curious. Wanting to know as much about your family history as possible. Is that not normal, to want to know what to expect?"

"Yes, it is. Perhaps a little too normal for you, Sherlock. If I had to guess, you were taking a medical history to find out what our kids would have to overcome." You joked.

"Well, since you brought it up, I did conclude that any offspring we produced would be attractive and healthy, so long as I taught them to eat healthily." He responded, with a smile.

You laughed. "You? The man who just ordered a slab of red meat and gave no attention to nutritious sides? Please. Also, Sherlock, we haven't even kissed yet. Don't go naming the kids. It's creepy."

"I suppose, but when it comes to that, don't let John sell you on 'Hamish'. It's a rubbish name."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock opened the taxi door for you and walked you to the door of your building, hands tucked behind his back. He stood there awkwardly for a moment before he sighed. "This seems like a perfectly cliché place to put right an injustice." He said, looking around.

"And what injustice is that?" You asked, hands in the pockets of your jacket as you turned on the first step and smiled at him.

"We haven't kissed yet. That needs to be remedied... so that I can name the children, of course." He said with a smile.

You smiled brighter and looked up at him. He dipped his head down and captured your lips.  _ *Light pressure, no saliva, tongue only when invited.* _ He reminded himself before your lips parted and you reached up to tangle your fingers in his curls. Sherlock tentatively pushed his tongue into your mouth and he closed his eyes when you pushed your body against his. A moment later, though it felt like forever to both of you, you pulled back and looked down, your cheeks flushed pink.

**_"Now, tell her about the Magnussen case. The plan. Cheeks flushed, eyes dilated; this woman is falling for you. It's only fair to let her in on the plan."_ ** John's voice reasoned from his Mind Palace.

**_"You can avoid telling us to make it authentic, Sherlock, but she might not understand if you just dump her with no warning. Might not be around after you get done with Janine. Especially if she thinks you dumped her for some PA you met at the wedding."_ ** Mary joined in.

"You researched how to kiss, didn't you?" You asked, trying to hide how breathless the kiss had left you.

"I didn't. I must have a natural talent..."

"Sherlock." You interrupted.

"I Googled what women hate and did the opposite." He admitted, quickly.

"Well, you should thank Google."

"Y/n, I had a great night. You didn't bore me once, and that is unheard of. But... I feel I need to ruin the mood." Your face sobered at the words. "You see, John and Mary are getting married in about six weeks. I know you know this because Lestrade RSVP'd with you listed as his plus one. Must be having problems with the wife again. Someone else RSVP'd, though, and she is very important to a case I'm working."

Your face fell and you backed away to lean against your door, reminding Sherlock of the predatory/innocent way you'd looked in his mind. "Let me guess, you need to seduce her?"

"Seduction is short term. I need her to fall for me." He admitted. "So, when we return from the trip to your family home, we need to have a very loud, very public falling out. It has to be believed by everyone. John, Mary, Lestrade, even my brother Mycroft. Everyone must think I failed at making a relationship work with even a like-minded woman. She has to think she can fix me. The profile I compiled on this woman..."

"I don't need your profile. I know what kind of woman falls for Sherlock Holmes." You interrupted, quickly, and then you sighed. "You know, I understand, Sherlock. I know your work comes first and I'm glad you let me know so I could be in on it instead of thinking I did something wrong." You tried to portray your emotions as you were saying, instead of showing your sadness as you gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek and turned to go inside. "I won't be taking you upstairs with me, Holmes."

"I wasn't expecting you to, but...  _ why _ aren't you taking me upstairs?"

"For several reasons. Mostly because it's only our first date. As strong as our connection may be, Sherlock, I wouldn't want to put us in a situation where we might be immodest. And two, because I am not going to run the risk of teaching you something that you may use on her in bed."

"I've made no plans to sleep with her."

"Yes, you have. You've planned for every contingency. You have to make her believe you've fallen for her if you want her to fall for you and that may just involve a sexual relationship, unless she's religious... and you haven't met her yet, so you wouldn't know how deep her faith is. I understand, but I won't facilitate that more than I have to." You leaned in and gave him a tight hug. "When you book your hotel room, make sure you get a good view of the beach. It's a breathtaking sight at dusk." You said as goodbye, before heading inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were used to your picture making the papers. Photos snapped from the other side of yellow tape or from the crowd at a press conference, but you weren't ready for a blurry picture from a cell phone to be posted and shared across the gossip sites and Holmes fan sites. Your colleagues, specifically Sgt. Donovan, thought it was 'adorable' how you'd gone to the tips of the toes of your wedge heels during the good night kiss. You hadn't even realized you'd done it. "He's tall. I'm not." You dismissed.

"Why were you kissing him, anyway?"

"Do you not recognize an attractive man when yer beratin' one? Ask yer friend Anderson what's so compellin' 'bout Sherlock."

"No, I get why he's compelling, but why were  _ you _ kissing him?"

"What's that supposed to mean, Sally?"

"I just... I always thought you... were..." Sally cleared her throat. "A... you know..."

"You thought I was gay. Why?"

"Well, 'cause ya haven't ever paid any attention to anyone, really."

"So, if I keep my eyes off the men in my division, that means I fancy birds?" You shook your head, coffee mug shaking in your hand. "Sherlock's right. Yer an idiot."

"I didn't mean to offend-"

"You know, Sherlock would say something cutting here, but I'm not him, so I'm jus' gonna say 'feck off'." You smirked, to show her that you were playing, before throwing up two fingers and walking up to your office. 

"I see the date went well." Greg said, from your chair.

"Get yer boots off my desk." You didn't look at the mobile he tried to push into your face as you set your coffee down and pushed his feet.

"You seen this?"

"You mean, the blatant and blurry invasion of my privacy? No, I didn't see it."

"These fans are torn about the two o' you." He dropped his boots to the carpet beneath your desk and swung your computer monitor to show one of the fan blogs and the comments underneath.

"'Well, she's obviously a beard'. What does that even mean?" You squinted at the words on your screen as Greg vacated your desk chair.

"Oh, uh, a lot of these wackos think Holmes an' Watson were more than roommates and Mary is just a cover for John... an', I guess, yer just a cover for Sherlock."

"I didn't think people still did that. It's a new millennium. Did you know that Donovan thinks  _ I'm _ gay?"

"Oh, yeah. I told her she was wrong, but I didn't give away any of your personal information, so she didn't believe me." He pointed to one of the comments and smiled. "This one's my favorite."

"'I hope she's got a heart of ice or Holmes is gonna tear her apart'. What? Holmes doesn't need cold-hearted folks, he needs- Oh, I see what yer doin'. Get out of my office. Go solve a murder." You dismissed.

"You like him." Greg smirked as he headed out.

"Shut up. You sound like yer in grade 8."

"I wasn't the one that got caught snoggin' on yer front step." He teased, before ducking out of the office.

You sat in your chair and went to exit out of the browser, but your eyes scrolled the page, instead. Greg was right; Sherlock's fans were torn about the news that he was dating someone. There were a bunch of ' **I thought he was ace** ' responses, peppered with ' **beard** ' accusations and 'He's gonna eat her alive', but then there were the hopeful comments. ' **She looks pretty. What do we know about her?** ', ' **Doesn't this look like a first kiss? How did the photographer catch the magic of their first kiss?** ', ' **I wish them all the best!!!! :)** ' And then were the creeper ones. ' **Wait, she looks like the smokin bobby that arrested my bro when he offed his girl. Murphy, I think. Pure Irish sex.** ', ' **Shes so small! He's gonna tear her in half when they finally f***** ', ' **Id tear her in half. Look at her arse in that skirt.** '

You shook off the feeling of disgust and clicked over to John's blog. At the top, a brand new entry:  **Sherlock and y/n, Sitting in a Tree** . You rolled your eyes and clicked on it.

**'Yes, I know the title is childish, but I feel a bit giddy that Sherlock might have actually** **_found_** **someone! It was a bit of a set-up, I must admit. She's friends with Greg, works at Metro with him. She's smart, she's pretty, and she keeps him mentally engaged. She's a genius. At least I think she is, I didn't exactly ask her IQ, but she was able to shock the poor man into silence within the first 5 minutes of them meeting.**

**Greg called us out to a crime scene, (** **_her_ ** **scene, not his), and she stopped us before we got anywhere near the victim. She knew who he was, but she said she wasn't impressed and proceeded to tear into him. She rapidly ran down a list of deductions, just like Sherlock always does, and she got everything right! And these aren't things she'd know from Greg or this blog, it was things about his past and personality. And then, she told him that she didn't need his help! Sherlock, of course, couldn't comprehend someone being able to solve a murder without his assistance, so she called him 'deaf' and used sign language on him! I thought it was bloody brilliant. Less brilliant? The violin torture I endured that evening. He was so upset at her that he wasn't even trying to play music, just screeching noise. Which I'm assuming is what it sounded like when he was trying to teach her how to play 2 nights later, but who knows?**

**Point is, she's a lot like him and she's also a lot like Mary and I have high hopes for the future of their relationship. Oh, and that picture everyone is passing around is blurry, so here's a clearer one.**

At the bottom of the post was a picture of you staring up at Sherlock from the sofa, violin in your hands. The comments here were the hopeful variety.

' **Well she looks lovely.** '-Marie Turner

' **Oh she is! Such a sweet young woman.** '-Mrs Hudson

' **Is that Sherlock Holmes with a sparkle in his eye? Mate, I never thought I'd see the day!** '-Mike Stamford

' **Wow.** '-Molly Hooper

' **Why does anyone care?** '-theimprobableone

' **Must you participate in this ridiculous enterprise, John?** '-Sherlock Holmes

' **Yes.** '-John Watson

You made a login and commented, as well. ' **How did you take that picture without me noticing?** '-DI Murphy.

Then you went to work on your back reports. An hour later, you checked the blog again.

' **You were busy getting lost in Sherlock's eyes. And I made sure the flash was off** '-John Watson.

It occurred to you, as you read over the comments again, that John was helping promote Sherlock's plan without even knowing it. You wondered how often that actually happened as your mind turned to the 'loud, public falling out' you'd agreed to have with him. That was going to be hard but most definitely possible. You hated it, though. Already, you were dreading it. So, when Sherlock texted to meet him for lunch, you jumped at the opportunity.

He was already sitting at an outdoor table at a café when you arrived and he didn't stand as you approached. You sat across from him and hung your purse on the back of the chair. "Good after-"

"So, I've been thinking through everything you said last night." He didn't look at you, focusing on the building behind you.

"Okay?"

"How did you overcome your anorexia? Was it talk therapy? A health rehab?"

You scoffed. "That's kinda personal to be talking about over tea."

"I haven't ordered the tea, yet."

You frowned, deeply, then sighed. Sherlock would get his answer, whether you told him, or not. "I tried to kill myself." You said, turning to pull a compact mirror out of your purse. "Couple months after my divorce was final, I slit my wrists. Hospital put me on a psych hold, wouldn't let me leave until I was close enough to their definition of 'sane'. This included seeing an eating disorder specialist who told me every day for a month that starving myself wouldn't bring my daughter back. As if I didn't already know that." You positioned the mirror to see what he was looking at, but found nothing.

"How did you get a law enforcement job with a suicide attempt on your record?"

"My hospital records were under my maiden name, so they haven't come up in any of my background checks. By the time I got done at university, I was... past it. Well enough to pass the entry psych test." You snapped the compact closed and looked up at him.

"Enough to  _ fool _ the entry psych test, you mean. You don't just get over that sort of malady."

"You're right, but you're wrong, Sherlock. You take the thing..." You cleared your throat as his eyes finally left the building to look at you. "You take the thing that's hurting you and you use it. You better yourself. You help people, because if you don't have a better purpose than you're no better than you used to be."

Sherlock nodded. "You must only wear long sleeves." 

You nodded, slightly, tugging a bit at your sleeve. "And thick watch bands and long gloves. The idiots in my division think I have tattoos."

"Does Lestrade know?"

You bit your lip. "Yes. We've never... We've never talked about it, like  _ this _ , but he's always... he always makes sure I'm not alone on the anniversary of Arianna's disappearance, that I'm distracted. He took me on a cruise last year, signed us up for all the activities. He made me focus on something else."

"How'd Mrs. Lestrade take that?"

"I, honestly, don't think she cares, anymore. She'll be back to her maiden name, soon enough." Sherlock nodded. He recognized the signs of Lestrade's coming divorce. "So... are we done? You gonna toss out the damaged American rubbish?"

"Y/n, I'm an addict who spends every waking moment trying to keep myself from falling back into those...  _ alluring _ old habits. You might be damaged but all the best people are." He said it so dismissively that it took a minute for you to realize he was comforting you.

"Right. So... tea?" You asked, with a smile.

"Yes. Do you actually like tea or is it just a requirement of your disguise?" Sherlock asked, waving at the server.

"Both." You smiled. "Definitely prefer coffee, but that might just be the cop in me."

"So, I see you've inserted your presence on John's blog." Sherlock said, his focus going back to the building behind you as the server walked away. 

"I figured I'd better put myself in a position to defend against any, you know, misinformation or breach of my identity."

"You know we're being watched."

"The table at your 1 o'clock. Harmless fans."

"Paparazzi at your 5 and I'm sure Mycroft is watching."

"Your big brother  _ is _ Big Brother. That's... almost poetic, Sherlock."

"Yes, I'm sure he'll pull you into a nondescript car to meet you sometime soon."

"Looking forward to it." You joked.

"You say that, because you haven't met my brother."

"You're the one all excited to meet  _ my _ family." You smiled, and Sherlock smiled back. "So, who's in the building behind me?"

"A murderer. I made him believe that I knew where he hid the knife, so he's foolishly leading me to it."

"When he leaves that building, you're going to be running off to follow him, huh?" Sherlock just smiled at you, in response. "Yeah, I'll have to get used to that."

"Oh, you'll need to text me your aeroplane and hotel reservations, so that John can make mine."

"John makes your reservations for you? You do know he's a bloody doctor, not your secretary, right?"

"I'm certain he can handle being both." He smirked as you started to set up your tea.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Are you sure? I mean, this is a major thing." John looked distraught as you handed him your itinerary.

"It is a plane ride followed by an uncomfortable hour-long drive." You shrugged. "Then, my family will insult me and try to insult Sherlock and he'll shoot back and they probably won't even realise they've been insulted. My parents will insist that I stay in my old room and I've always caved to that in the past, but this time I'll have Sherlock as an excuse to keep my damn hotel reservations."

"Okay, but Sherlock is a terrible travel companion. You have heard how he gets when he's bored. What do you think he'll do on a flight with nothing to do and no gun to shoot?" 

You chuckled. "It's fine. We'll turn my mobile on airplane mode and play Scrabble. Or maybe, I'll make a joke about the Mile High Club and he'll get all awkward and spend the rest of the flight reading and pretending not to be intrigued."

"I... I guess you have it all figured out, then." John said, walking over to the desk and opening his laptop.

Sherlock picked up his violin and handed it to you. "Lesson #2?"

"Okay." You put the violin to your shoulder and placed your fingers on the strings.

"Wrong." He said, moving your fingers to the right position. "Better. Let's begin." You didn't fail as hard this time, only letting out a screeching terrible sound three times over the next hour. "Well, you're getting better. We'll keep working on it."

"It wasn't bad. I, actually, expected a  _ lot _ worse. Guess super geniuses are just well-suited for violin, huh?" John looked over from the desk.

You handed the violin back to Sherlock, who leaned it against the back of the sofa. "I'm just glad I'm not wasting Sherlock's time. I definitely thought I was complete shit at it last time."

"It was your first lesson, y/n." He smiled at you, as you stood. You looked up into his face, a beautiful softness to his eyes. He grasped your hands and brought your knuckles to his lips. "Put your phone away, John." Sherlock ordered, dropping your hand to your side. 

John laughed and placed his mobile on the table in front of him. "I'll get another good one, eventually." 

"I'm certain your readers will love that." Sherlock rolled his eyes before turning back to you. "I'll text you tomorrow."

"All right. Tomorrow. Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night."

"Good night, John."

"Good night, y/n." John looked up from the table as you walked out. "I really like her."

"I already knew you approved, John."

"No, I mean..." John stood, shutting his laptop. "I like you  _ with _ her. You're good with her."

"What does that mean?"

"It means... you look happy with her, Sherlock. And I'm sure you think that's stupid and normal, but... I think it's a good thing."

Sherlock nodded. He did think it was stupid and normal, but he supposed happy  _ was _ a good thing in most opinions. It was going to be unfortunate when John found out about their break-up. Sherlock was trying to come up with a plan for the fake fight, but every time he thought about it, he had the urge to procrastinate. He didn't want to think of the best way to end things. He didn't want to end things, even knowing he had to, and that confused him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The nondescript car never found you, though you spent the next two weeks expecting it, between your relentless paperwork and your violin lessons and the two days you sat on Sherlock's sofa while he and John interviewed possible clients. One, in particular, paid more attention to you than he did John, mumbling under his breath about how gorgeous you are. You'd texted Sherlock that his story was a complete fabrication; that there wasn't ever a body in his attic, much less one that disappeared. 

"How would she know?! She's just a dumb-"

"I trust her analysis more than I trust your word. You can leave."

"You- but I'm-"

"Goodbye."

You stood from the sofa as the fake client left. "I think I underestimated the amount of bullshit you have to weed through to find a case that's worth your time."

"It's a constant struggle, finding a good puzzle. I was considering pulling old unsolved cases. Do you have a box of cold case files I can peruse?"

You smiled, placing a hand on his chest. "I'll see what I can scrounge up, Holmes. Dinner at Angelo's?"

"7 pm. Don't be late."

"Am I ever?"

"Don't let tonight be the first." He smiled as he placed his hand over yours. "Don't forget the case files."

"Oh, that's a good one." John said, turning his camera phone to show the picture he'd just taken. You had to admit, it was a good picture. "Going on the blog."

You chuckled, going to your tiptoes to kiss Sherlock's cheek. "See you in a few hours." You pulled all of your files out and brought them with you to Angelo's. The first file he pulled out was the most worn, and you were sure that was why he picked it from the file box.

"Your daughter's abduction?" He deduced before he opened the folder.

You nodded. "I only put it in because... you know, fresh eyes. Unbiased eyes." You brushed your hair behidn your ear. "You don't have to- I'm sure it's boring and the Cambs Cops did a shit job with the report and it's half-redacted, anyway, and mostly just pictures and-"

"Of course I'll look at it... for you... between these other unsolveds. Lot of murders in here?" He shut the folder and put it down before rifling through the other folders.

"Yeah. Plenty of murders. A couple unsolved art heists, and 3 missing persons including Arianna. Any help, you know..."

"Most of these cases aren't yours." He said, rapidly opening and closing folders, stacking them on the table beside the box.

"Of course, not. How many unsolved cases do you have?"

"Well... a few. Not many. Bainbridge still weighs on me." He admitted, quickly, in his most dismissive tone.

"And you'd invite someone to look into the ones you couldn't figure out?"

"No. Suppose not."

"My unsolved cases are  _ mine _ , thank you." You said, with a smirk. "These are just some I pulled for when  _ I _ get bored. A couple are Greg's, don't tell him I gave them to you."

"Now, I have something to work on, on the plane."

"Well, thank God for that." You chuckled as he dropped the folders back into the box.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock spent half of the flight immersed in a folder, the other half staring blankly ahead. John had called it the 'Mind Palace look' and it basically meant he was immersed in his thinking to the point of being unreachable. You took that opportunity to have a little nap against the window. 

You retrieved your rental car as Sherlock got your bags, and you began the drive from the airport to your parents' home. "I know you don't do well with people. I know you don't like dealing with them, but you wanted to meet them, Sherlock, so you have to try not to-"

"They're your people, y/n. I'll do my best." He looked out the window as you drove. "The number of churches directly correlates to the number of off-license stores."

"Do yourself a favor and call them 'liquor stores'. People 'round here, they'll have no clue what you're talking about and I know how much you hate tedium like explaining basic Queen's English to someone."

"I'm already preparing myself for that. You don't speak English, here."

"We speak American. I know." You joked. "I'm someone who had to learn to write English and speak Irish, all the while translating in my head to American. I definitely appreciate the nuance, Sherlock."

"Of course, you do."

He wrapped an arm around you as you approached the house and you took a deep breath. "I'm not nervous."

"You know, lying to me is-"

You rolled your eyes. "Okay, I am. But it's not... it's that... they're good people and all and I love them, but they get to me and I don't want you to think poorly of me if I get-"

Sherlock stopped you and took your chin in his hands. "Stop worrying. Everything is going to be fine."

"You say that, but... these are our last three days, Sherlock, before we fly back and you go to work making another woman fall for you. I don't want you to remember me as a weak woman."

"With all I've seen of you over these last two weeks, there is no way I will perceive you as anything less."

You smiled at him, before nodding. "Come on." You wrapped your arm around his waist and led him to the door where you knocked. Your mother answered, smiling brightly as you pulled away from Sherlock to wrap your arms around her.

"Y/n! How are you, sweetheart?!"

"I'm good, Mom. Real good. This is Sherlock." You introduced him and he smiled as he stepped forward and took her hand.

"What kinda name is 'Sherlock'?" Your father asked, walking up.

"You asked this same question when I told you I was bringing him home, Dad. It's British. Like 'Englebert'."

"What a terrible name 'Englebert' is." Sherlock commented.

"Can we move past the hazing part of this, please? We're all adults and it'd be just swell if we could act like it."

"But the hazing is so much fun!" Your father responded, wrapping you in his arms. 

"Adults rarely act like adults, y/n." Sherlock said, smiling.

"Says the man who went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet because he refused to put pants and trousers on!" You giggled. 

"He what?!"

"Yeah. It's a thing with his brother, who works for the government." You pushed into the living room as your father sized Sherlock up.

"My daughter said you're a genius."

"Well, intelligence can't be quantified, but if it could, which it can't, I'd say that I am a genius." Sherlock responded, offering his hand to your father. 

Your father took it and shook it. "Her ex-husband swore he was a genius, too. Said he took a test in third grade and-"

"Dad, Sherlock doesn't want to hear about Mike's 147, okay, and God knows I don't, either." 

"Is there tea?" Sherlock asked, as soon as your dad let his hand go and he followed you into the house.

"I doubt there is anything you would like, but let me look." You walked into the kitchen and opened the cabinet above the stove, finding several small boxes of mostly green and herbal varieties of tea. "Nothing you'd like, Sherlock. How about a cup of coffee? There's a French press and some good strong beans. How's that sound?" 

"Black, two sugars!" He called.

You put on the electric kettle and stared at it, waiting for it to boil. As you bit your lip, listening intently to the conversation in the living room, your oldest sister walked into the kitchen and wrapped you in a tight hug. "So, that's the famous Sherlock Holmes? He's tall!"

"He's only 6 foot."

"What is it with you and tall guys? Wasn't Mike 6 foot?"

"Yeah, well, Sherlock doesn't need to lie about his height."

"So, I looked him up like you told me to." Jess said, releasing you. ""You're right, I didn't understand half the crap on his website. But he has a loud displeasure with the police. It's all over his site."

"Yeah, well, most of us have a loud displeasure with  _ him _ ." Your sister scoffed, so you continued. "No, really. He makes people feel stupid. He tactlessly points out people's flaws and people hate him for it."

"But you don't hate him, 'cause he can't make  _ you _ feel stupid."

"I'm one of the few who escape that. I mean, his best... well,  _ only _ friend is a St. Bartholomew's trained M.D. who fought in Afghanistan. The man is fairly intelligent,  _ obviously _ , but Sherlock makes him feel dumb  _ every _ day. It's just me, his brother, Mycroft, and possibly his mother." You pulled out the coffee press and grabbed the container of coffee.

"So, how long have you known him? Didn't find any pictures of the two of you from before a few weeks ago."

"Well, he's been working as a consultant with Metro for years. Some of Greg's biggest cases were solved with his help."

"Yeah, but how long have  _ you _ known him?"

"Just a couple months." You lied. You were sure she'd judge you if she knew how quickly your relationship was moving... and it turns out you were right.

"Wow, and you're already bringing him home? Are you pregnant?"

You looked down, blushing slightly. "No. We haven't even slept together. He doesn't care about that stuff."

"So, he's gay." 

"No. He's not gay. If he was gay, Mycroft would know. He knows everything. No, Sherlock just... focuses on his work. I think the only reason he let us click is because I'm a detective, too. One of his caliber, even." As the kettle clicked off, you looked into the living room, exhaling sharply as you noticed the telltale signs of Sherlock zoning out. "Oh, no."

"What?" Jess stepped up behind you to look over your head into the living room.

"He's bored."

"So?"

"Bored is  _ so _ not good for Sherlock." You answered, pouring the water into the coffee press and walking into the living room with a big fake smile on your face. "Hey, Sherlock, the coffee is on. It just needs to steep. Why don't you go have a cigarette and I'll bring it to you when it's done?" Sherlock stood without a word and headed outside.

"A smoker? You brought a grumpy British smoker home."

"Smoking beats the alternative, Mom."

"And what's that?"

You shrugged. "A much less legal addiction."

Her eyes widened. "You brought a grumpy British junkie home?"

"I brought a grumpy British  _ former _ junkie home. His caring older brother and a team of government funded rehabilitation experts made sure of that. He's been sober for years."

"That doesn't matter. He's still-"

"I suppose that if time sober doesn't mean anything, then you're still an alckie and we should treat you as such."

"Uh..." Jess started, not sure about your attitude.

"He's a good man and I would love for you guys to like him as much as I do, but... you don't have to." You brushed your hair behind your ears and walked outside. "I'd ask your opinion of them, but I saw the look. The Mind Palace Escape look."

"They are exactly as you described them. Exactly what I expected; a flawed, lower-intelligence group who are very protective of you."

You shrugged. "The last time I brought a man home was my ex-husband. They didn't like him and they ended up losing Arianna because of him. They  _ kinda _ lost me because of him losing her, so... they're wary."

"You know, they don't have to like me. Most people don't."

"I  _ want _ them to like you." You sat next to him on the small porch swing. "We're breaking up in two days and if they hate you, then I'm gonna have to endure the whole 'he sucked, let's talk shit about him' thing and if we end up getting back together, then... I want them to support that."

"So... two days of being happy with one another and then we have to... break up. Have you had any ideas about the fight? Because I was thinking-"

You reached over and plucked the cigarette from his fingers, nestling it between your first and middle finger. "When we get on the plane, you're going to mention how happy you are to be away from the idiots in my family. You  _ will _ be happy to go, so it won't be too much of a stretch. I will get pissed off at the comment and I won't speak to you the entire flight, bring a book. When we start to de-plane, you'll notice I'm giving you the cold shoulder and ask me what's wrong. Once we've made it past security, I will explode at you for being an asshole. You will insult my family, call them 'inbred from inbreds', or the like, and I will slap you and stomp off... and that will be the end of us." 

**_'The end of us'_ ** gave Sherlock a twinge of sadness, but he nodded. "You've thought this out. Good. And can you shout with an accent?" He asked, focusing on his cigarette resting between your fingers, smoke twirling up into the overhang of the porch.

"I'm a cop. I'd have been found out a long time ago if I couldn't shout." You chuckled, slightly. "And I was a thespian in high school so I learned how to choreograph a fight scene."

"So... what do you want to do with our remaining time?"

"I really want you to see the beach, Sherlock." 

"I  _ have _ been to Florida before, y/n. Mrs. Hudson lived here when I got her husband executed for double murder."

"I know, but you've only seen the Atlantic side. This is the Gulf, with the gorgeous white sand and Emerald waters. It's far more beautiful than Miami's. There is a reason that beach weddings are a huge industry here. Come on." You took a deep drag off of his cigarette, filling your lungs with tobacco smoke, before raising your hand to his mouth and leaving the cigar between his lips. You breathed the smoke out your nose and stood, opening the door. "Someone drink that coffee. We're going to the beach."

"Wait, you're leaving? You just got here." Jess protested.

"Sherlock is bored. We've only got 2 days in the States. There's too much to do for us to be bored." You responded, flippantly.

"You'll be coming back, though?" You mother whined from the couch.

"Maybe. Depends. We've got hotel reservations, so..."

"Aren't you going to stay in your room?"

"Definitely not. Not this time. Sherlock isn't sleeping in my high school bedroom and I'm not sending him to the hotel alone. We'll definitely be back tomorrow, though." You smiled at them, then dipped back out the door and unlocked the car. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As you sat on the beach, white sand under your hands and a sunset over the water, you sighed. "Isn't it gorgeous?"

"It's..." His words stalled as he looked out at the orange and pink and red of the sky.

"You don't think so, Sherlock?" You turned your head to look at him.

"Beauty is an opinion, one I don't usually have. I've only just become comfortable expressing that I feel you are beautiful. That?" He raised his hand to indicate the skyline. "It's just diffusion of light in the atmosphere."

"Yeah? And what, exactly, is beautiful about me?" You questioned, jokingly.

He didn't seem to get the joke, answering seriously. "Symmetrical features, even skin tone, multichromatic eyes... dissecting and saying these features separately doesn't do justice to your face."

You gasped. "That's so sweet."

"It wasn't meant to be." He responded, honestly.

"I know, but that just means you actually mean it." You leaned your head on his arm. "I know this might make me seem pathetic to you and clingy and sentimental, but I'm glad we've gotten to have this time together. After my divorce, I thought I was done. I mean, I tried to off myself, so obviously I thought I was done, but... I gave up at 21, focused everything into my work. I didn't even think I was  _ missing _ anything until you stomped your tall ass onto my crime scene. You made me feel... like a high school girl, all hormones and butterflies in my stomach." You looked up at him with your head still on his arm. "Even if you decide to stay gone after your ruse with this other woman, I'm glad we got these couple weeks of an almost normal relationship."

He took a deep breath. "Mycroft taught me not to get attached. I never even entertained the thought of a girlfriend... or a boyfriend. I have never considered sexuality as anything more than an outlet for stupid people to occupy their time and create more stupid people."

You sat up, maneuvering yourself in front of him on your knees. "And now? How do you consider the thought of sexuality, now?"

He scoffed. "Confusing."

You smiled and leaned in to kiss him, softly. "Anything that can confuse the great Sherlock Holmes is definitely great, itself." You whispered against his lips as you ran your hand through his hair, loving how soft it always was.

Sherlock had learned to love kissing you during the weeks before. He could count on both hands the times your lips had met, but he enjoyed the feel of it and likened the rush of elation hormones to a modest high.  **_'The end of us'_ ** rang through his thoughts as you began to pull away from him. Normally, when you signaled the end of a kiss, he let it happen, not letting you see his eagerness. But this time, he wrapped his arms tightly around you and held you close, not wanting it to end. He pulled you forward, causing you to straddle his lap. You pulled your head back and panted for a moment before kissing him quickly and forcefully. "That was new."

"I don't-"

"I'm not upset about it." You assured. 

"I'm anxious about leaving you." He admitted, twisting his fingers in your hair. "The plan I am going to put into place is not-It's not a  _ good _ plan. It's a plan that will definitely work, but... I'm certain it will anger people. I know that you aren't okay with it, but you're helping me, anyway. Why?"

You sighed, loving the feel of his hand in your hair and you sitting on his lap, but hating the subject matter of the conversation. "Whether I help or not, you're going to cause a fight with me in that airport on Friday. Without my help, you might just say something that puts a real end to us. I want the option of coming back when it's all done, and I have to help you for that to be an option." 

Sherlock grabbed the sides of your head and kissed you, grateful to have found someone so understanding. ' _ Maybe this will end all right. I follow the plan, retrieve the letters, put an end to Charles Magnussen, regain my sobriety and she will understand that it is all part of the case.' _

You smiled, happily, as you pulled away from him and stood. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's go get some dinner. I haven't eaten since the almonds on the plane and... I can't let myself be hungry. It's one of those things."

"Post-anorexia things?"

"Right." You took his hand and headed for the rental car.


	3. Wedding Bells

The plan for karaoke was your middle sister, Ella's, idea. You argued against the idea for a few moments over your birthday dinner, but eventually you gave in to the request when Sherlock shrugged and said he'd like to hear you sing, provided your singing is better than your violin playing. Your family insisted you play for them, excited that you'd finally gotten to learn. "So, karaoke, it is." You responded, blushing at the thought of playing in front of anyone who actually cared to hear.

You hadn't been to this particular nightclub since the Christmas break of your second year. You were too young to drink back then, but you'd really just been there to sing. Sherlock watched, amused, as you and your sisters poured over the thick binders of songs and picked out the perfect selections. He wasn't bored, finding humor in most of the other singers. He was amazed at your ability, though, and remembered that you'd said you wanted to be a singer when you were younger. When you stood up to sing the second time, Sherlock's eyes fell on a man on the other side of the bar. He was tall, a couple inches shorter than Sherlock was, with sandy blond hair and he was skinny to the point of looking ill. His posture and build seemed to match the man whose arm remained in the photo on your shelf. Sherlock stood and walked over to sit across from the man. "She's a very good singer."

"She's here with you. I'm sure you've heard her sing a million times." The blond responded, grumpily.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I've never heard her sing before tonight. Did she used to sing often?"

The man's face fell, slightly. "Yeah. She used to sing all the time. She got up and sang in class once, it's one of the things that made me fall for her."

"Perhaps she stopped singing when you killed her daughter." Sherlock suggested, throwing a quick look at the stage.

"Excuse me? Who the hell do you think you are?" Mike stood, indignantly.

"Sit back down. She hasn't noticed you and she hasn't put it together, yet." Sherlock demanded. Mike sat back down, lowering his head. "She's still blinded by her grief, even after all these years, but it took me 15 minutes with a redacted case file and several pictures to figure out that you'd done it." He looked at the stage, again, continuing. "Benefit of the doubt, I'd say she died by negligence, not malice, but you hid it. You buried her, most likely, and then you called the police."

The blond man covered his mouth with his hand, sadness and regret pulling at his features. "Now, I don't care either way. It wasn't my child; I had not attachment to it. Y/n left you. Subconsciously, she must have seen the clues and couldn't continue in a marriage with you. But you being here is going to ruin her birthday. Seeing you will make her think of the daughter you killed and I will not let that happen. It would ruin our trip. Leave now, and I won't tell her where to start looking for the bones."

Mike opened his mouth to say something but closed it again and stood. "I just wanted to see her. She's blocked me from social media. All I can find on Google is stuff about her work. She... she was my everything."

"You were riding her coattails, hoping to be a doctor's husband. I suppose I owe you a debt there, because if you'd been a better father, y/n would never have become a Detective Inspector and I would likely have never met her. Most doctors bore me. They can't think beyond what they've been taught. Now... leave. Make sure she doesn't see you."

Mike nodded and ran out, ducking his head as Sherlock walked back over to the table and sat down as you finished your song and hopped off of the stage. You kissed his cheek and leaned up to whisper in his ear. "Thank you. I was certain he was going to try to come talk to me."

"Of course." 

"How was he?" Ella asked.

"Holes in his clothes, regret in his eyes. I'm certain he fell apart without y/n's positive influence, but you would know better than I do. You obviously told him where we'd be."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't deny it, you knew he'd be here. The only way that would make sense were if you told him where to find us."

"Fine." Ella threw her hands up. "He has been bugging me about you for 10 years! Seriously. Ever since the divorce was final, he's been asking me about you. He just wanted to see you, y/n."

You shook your head. "Well, thank you very much for inviting the man who almost ruined me to my birthday celebration!"

"Don't be so dramatic." Ella rolled her eyes.

"Dramatic?!" You shouted. "He threw me into a depression so deep that I almost killed myself. I  _ tried _ to! He's the reason I joined the force, the reason I'm not a doctor. He's the reason I'm not a moth-" Tears fell from your eyes as those words caused your throat to clench. You tried to swallow the lump obstructing the words. "I ceased to be myself when he lost Arianna. I had to... I had to buy new clothes and makeup for the first time in a decade when I met Sherlock because  _ he _ made me give up on everything except making sure nothing else goes cold! You are the most inconsiderate, stupid person I've ever met! Sherlock doesn't do emotions like we do and even he knew that Mike showing up was gonna set me off. How dare you?!"

"Well, if that's how you feel, I'll just fucking leave." 

"Good." You spat as your sister got up and stomped out.

As your oldest sister rushed to do damage control with your other sister, you walked out to the patio and sat on the edge of one of the tables with your beer balanced on your knee. You wanted something stronger, but you couldn't go back in there for a while. Sherlock read your mind, bringing a glass of scotch to you and moving to sit next to you on the top of the patio table. As you took a drink of the scotch, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and offered you one. You didn't normally smoke, but with Sherlock it always seemed like the thing to do, so you accepted and let him light it for you. "I've tried to not hate him... because I know that... it wasn't... it wasn't on purpose. I know he didn't mean to destroy me and hating him won't change anything." You took a drag from the cigarette and rubbed at your eyes. "She was perfect, Sherlock. She was absolutely divine and she's gone and it's his fault. You know... sometimes I think... I think he killed her."

Sherlock straightened a bit at your admission. "Why do you think that?"

You shook your head. "He was always an inattentive parent. I mean... I wasn't Mother of the Year; I was always busy with school and work, always so exhausted, but when I had her I paid attention." You wiped at your eyes. "It never made sense, you know, that she'd been kidnapped. How would the kidnapper know that he was asleep? And... and the cleaners were wrong."

"How were they wrong?" Sherlock coached, trying to help you come to the right conclusion.

"Uh... the tech unit made a mess of the flat, so I went to the cabinet to get cleaner. The child lock was broken. Mike had done a shit job putting it on." You gained a bit of momentum to your speech. "I'd just bought a bottle of ammonia at Tesco like a week before. It was half empty when I pulled it out, but it shouldn't have been, and the top was on way too tight... like it'd been tightened with purpose."

"And what conclusions can you draw from all that?"

"Oh, Christ, Sherlock, did she get in the cabinet and drink the ammonia?" You asked, looking over at him with teary eyes. 

"He wasn't paying attention, but that's understandable. Men don't always possess the ability to care for children. But instead of calling the ambulance immediately, he cleaned up the site, hence the over-tight cap on the ammonia. Then, he disposed of the body and phoned the police."

You set the scotch on the table and tossed the cigarette at the grass, sobbing as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. "Thank you."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around you, cautiously. "I just told you that your daughter has been dead for more than a decade. Why are you thanking me?" He asked, softly. 

You pulled back, slightly, rubbing at your red eyes as you looked up at him. "Because, I told you, I just wanted to know. I just.. just wanted to know what happened and you... you helped me know."

Sherlock nodded. The case was solved, that's all you wanted. "Are you going to do anything about it?"

"Like what? Revenge? I left him, ruined him just as much as he ruined me. We have no evidence, so no arrest. Besides, he'd get 3 hots and a cot in prison. Out here, he has to work himself silly cooking for minimum wage at a diner to get by. He is on government assistance just to eat and he's about to lose his toes because his diabetes cause circulation to diminish in his feet... and it's all because I left him, because he took her from me. It's better this way. It's better that he spends the rest of his life in pain because I wasn't around to take care of his sorry ass."

"You know quite a bit about his life for someone who hasn't spoke to him in a decade."

"People tell me things, trying to get my sympathy for him."

Sherlock gave a small smile and stood. "Happy birthday, y/n."

"That sounds a bit weird coming from you, Sherlock. You are still a little stiff on the niceties." You stood next to him and wiped your eyes again. "I'm so torn. I want to go home, so badly. This place, these people, they never cease to remind me why I don't ever come home anymore. This is why I haven't been back in so long. But I know that when we get off the plane, I'm not going to see you again."

"It won't be the last time you see me. You'll be at the wedding, and I estimate my plan won't take more than 3 months after the wedding." Sherlock reminded.

You just sighed, heavily. "I just want to go home."

"Tomorrow. Tonight, why don't we head back to the hotel?" He looked away from you to the parking lot. "You shouldn't be alone, though, so you should stay in my room."

"Nothing sordid in that invitation, right?" You gave a tired smile as he wrapped his arm around you and led you to the parking lot.

"Of course not. You wouldn't want to teach me anything, right?" 

"Right. But... I wouldn't say 'no' to a good cuddle."

"I was thinking the same."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, you headed for the plane after spending the night and half of the day in Sherlock's hotel room bed, completely clothed but wrapped together in each other's warmth. As you boarded the plane and headed for your seats, he leaned close. "Are you ready?" He asked, quietly.

"Of course." You lied, knowing he wouldn't call you out on it.

"Okay." He looked around the plane. "There are four people on this flight who recognize me. F2 and F3 are fans. B2 looks angry, I must have insulted him in the past, and back near the hostess stand is the one Mycroft sent to follow me and make sure I don't cause an international incident. 3 of the 4 will be more than happy to gossip." He whispered.

"You're on, Mr. Holmes." You whispered back.

"I'm so glad to be heading back home. I can't believe you came from those imbeciles. I'd suspect you were adopted if you didn't look remarkably like your oldest sister. They are almost handicapped. What it must be like in their little brains." Sherlock complained loudly.

You glared at him, but didn't respond, flopping down in your seat and pulling out your headphones and iPod to ignore him. You leaned back and crossed your arms over your chest and closed your eyes. A moment later, long thin fingers entwined with yours. You looked down and saw Sherlock had crossed his arms, too, effectively hiding your hand-holding. It was a small gesture, but it made you feel better about the upcoming fight. You closed your eyes again and set your head against the headrest, your thoughts filled with memories of the comforting night before.

By the end of the 8 and a half hour plane ride, you were ready for it to be over, almost drowning in the anxiety of the event. You were ready to move on with your life and your job and forget you might have been close to falling in love again. You weren't quite sure why, but you were certain that Sherlock wasn't going to come back. He stood and reached up to retrieve your carry-on bag, which you snatched from his fists as you pushed past him. "Are you upset?" He asked.

You kept walking, quietly seething at him and doing your best to make it look real. As soon as you were past security, you spun around and hit him with your bag. "You are such an arsehole! You insult my family, you my home! You even insulted the intelligence of me father's dog! Ruined me birthday and then you have the nerve, the unmitigated gall to say yer glad to be away from them? They're glad fer you to be gone!"

"Did you want me to lie? Your family is a bunch of apes. They must have been inbred deep into your family tree, and they look it. Every one of them have markers of inbreeding. They're some of the least attractive people I've ever met."

You pulled your hand back and slapped him. "And I look just like my oldest, right? Well, yer brother walks like a penguin, and you look like a bloody giraffe." You shouted, slapping him again and stomping off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You stopped by a restaurant before heading to her apartment. As you sat at the table, picking at your chips, your phone went off several times. The first was a text from an unknown number.

' **Spectacular performance. Most of the terminal was staring as you stomped away. -SH** '

You sighed and typed out your response.  **'Stop sabotaging yourself. Unknown number or not, if Myc. looks at my messages, you'll be found out. Don't text again** .'

The next message was from John. ' **What happened?** ' This, you decided to answer by voice. John answered on the second ring. "Y/n, hi. What happened? Sherlock is in a... a mood. He said you had a fight?"

"The trip was an absolute disaster, John. You were right, 'e don' travel well, and it was just too much so soon. He insulted every person in my family an' made sure we ran into my ex, an' insulted me for my poor taste in men. And then he basically said my whole family looks like we're inbred, and that I must have been adopted because I'm so much more intelligent than them. It was just the straw."

"I'm sure Sherlock was just nervous!" John insisted. "He tends to be more vicious when he's around new people. Don't give up so soon!"

"John..." You wanted to tell him that it was just a fake break, but you just sighed. "It just wasn't meant to be. He can't do relationships. I guess it's better to find that out now, innit?"

"Y/n... He's a great man, underneath all that superiority. Sherlock is more than just cleverness and vitriol, he just can't show it." 

"John, I know you thought I was gonna turn him into a human being, I did too, but the damage is too deep. Whatever made him the person he is, whatever did that, I can't reverse it."

John sighed. "Well, I guess... we will see you around."

"Yeah, and John? Don't let him come to any of my crime scenes." She added to make sure John helped her keep him from sabotaging his plan. 

"Of course." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you entered your flat, you set down your keys and took off her jacket before turning to address the tall, thin man sitting on your sofa with an umbrella resting between his legs. "I suppose there's somethin' in yer contract says you can enter any home you want without consequence, right Mr. Holmes?"

"Something like that, and you can drop the accent. I have, of course, read your entire file." He sat forward. "I do so wish my brother had introduced you to me before he ran off to Florida with you. Perhaps I would have been able to prevent that display at Heathrow had I met you previously."

"I doubt it. Your brother's a sociopath, Mycroft, who doesn't understand why it upsets me when he insults my family. He doesn't seem to understand much about family." You chuckled. "I Think I'd like to observe a Holmes family gathering. I imagine it would be a lot of glaring and passive-aggressive insults, trying to make each other feel inferior without your mum figuring it out. About right?"

Mycroft stood and looked down at you. "Yes, well... Sherlock is fond of you. Perhaps it's because your attitude is so like John's. But you are much less of a threat to national security than the last woman he looked at that way, so if you ever consider giving it another shot..." He trailed off.

"How do you know how he... the CCTV. Of course. Isn't it unethical to use state resources for personal affairs?"

"Well..." He gave a small smirk. "Who do you plan to tell?"

"No one." You responded, shaking your head.

"Exactly. Now, no one knows Sherlock quite like I do, y/n, so give us a ring if you plan to try again."

"Mycroft, I'd spend the money for a long distance call to Oklahoma before I ask for your help with my love life." 

Mycroft started to walk out the door, with a sour look on his face, but turned before he exited. "For curiosity's sake, did my brother ever bring himself to go past kissing you?"

"Well, since we're sharing, Mycroft, why don't you tell me all about your past conquests?"

"Quite." He said, opening the door.

"Just a question, though. Which one of your parents encouraged Sherlock to pick up the violin?" You asked, smirking.

He hesitated. "Our mother did. Why?"

"Well, if I do decide to make that call, I wanted to know which one to thank. I mean, the manual dexterity of that man..." You faked an exaggerated shiver. Mycroft made a displease sound and kept walking as you shut the door. You didn't mind lying to the older Holmes brother, because you were certain that a large portion of Sherlock's social deficiencies were his fault.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were back at work the next morning, hoping beyond everything for a good murder to distract yourself from the pictures circling the gossip rags of you and Sherlock fighting at the airport. Greg was in your office before your first cup of coffee was gone. He shut the door and sat in one of the chairs in front of your desk. "So... what happened?"

"Greg, I've gone over this so many times over the last 24 hours... It just didn't work out. He's insulting and rude and I thought I could deal with that, but I can't." You shook your head. "And I'm sorry, because I know you set us up for  _ me _ as much as you did it fer him, but... I can't."

"Well, all right." Greg gave a sad smile. "So, are you still up for the wedding? It's gonna be a lot of Sherlock and our table is right up front. I'd understand-"

"No, I wanna be there." You interrupted. "I wanna see him flounder at the task of speaking in front of a hundred people. Everyone starin' at him, with the pressure of not ruinin' John and Mary's big day, I wanna see that."

"Wow, he really pissed you off."

"Yes, he did." You confirmed, taking a drink of your coffee. "Plus, I already have the dress, Greg, and I have no other dress-related plans, so it'd be a waste to not go."

"All right. I'll let John know to keep you on the list."

"Thank you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next month crawled for you. You kept yourself busy with cases and reading and you spent more time than you'd like to admit reading and re-reading John's blog. You read through every post several times and every book in your flat before your mind turned to other distractions. Which is how you found yourself sitting on a bench across from your old apartment building, wondering where Mike might have buried your daughter.

"Excuse me. Detective Inspector Murphy?" A hoarse cockney voice asked as a man approached.

"Yes?" You turned to him. His clothes were dirty and in disrepair and he looked like a vagrant.

"This is for you." The man said, handing over a note.

You blinked at the yellow paper for a moment before opening it to find tiny, scrawling script. **_'I thought you only wanted an answer, Y/n. I gave you that. Now you have new questions. I have those answers, too. When I inquired, the landlord says he never ordered or gave permission for the planting of the oak near the west wall. It just appeared one day, about ten years ago. She is there. Please, move forward.'_ **

You looked up, eyes watering but not allowing yourself to cry, and you smiled at the homeless man. You pulled a ten pound note out of your wallet and handed it to him. "Go find Sherlock and tell him 'thank you'. And, tell him that I can't wait until this nonsense is over so I can actually bloody talk to 'im."

"Mr. Holmes said you might be innerested in a messenger service. An ol' fashioned one what cain't be tracked. Good ol' pen on paper."

"Well, that's very thoughtful, but I don't exactly carry that kind of supplies with me everywhere." You said, as the man pulled out a small stack of blank stationary and an expensive-looking pen.

"Mr. Holmes thought o' that."

"Of course 'e did. You mind waitin' 'round a bit?"

"That's what Mr. Holmes paid me for."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock sat on his chair and waited impatiently for his messenger. When a knock came to the door, he didn't wait for Mrs. Hudson to answer, he whipped down the stairs and ushered the homeless man up. "She was there."

"Of course she was. The letter." Sherlock demanded.

"She tol' me not to give it to ya if ya don' ask polite."

Sherlock stared at the man, stunned. After a moment, he came back to himself. "I pay you, give me the letter."

"Well, she paid me, too, sir."

Sherlock ground his teeth together as he said the word, "Please."

The man handed him the letter. "You wan' me ta wait around?"

"Of course! What do I pay you for?"

"You know, she mus' be attracted ta big brains, 'cause you didn't reel 'er in with yer manners, that's fer sure."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he unfolded the paper and he smiled as his eyes fell on your precise penmanship.

**_'Sherlock, I can follow the deductions down to see how you knew I would be here, but for the life of me, I don't know how you knew when I'd be here. You amaze me._ **

**_I've missed you. That quick connection we had, deducing everything about each other, it's made this last month pretty difficult. This messenger service might_** **_help, though. It's amazing, we get so caught up in this digital world that we forget that the analog is almost untraceable. I doubt even Mycroft will figure out this trick._**

**_Speaking of, I met him. He was in my flat when I got home the night of the fight. He seemed to like me. As much as Mycroft can like somebody, anyway. I got a little bit of an attitude and I might have left him with the impression that you and I slept together, so he might have a different opinion now._ **

**_I can't wait to see you at the wedding. Sherlock Holmes in a tux. I'm dreaming of that. I'll hold onto this stationary and pen since I don't know when Harry will be back with your next letter._ **

**_Regards, Y/n Murphy.'_ **

_ *No wonder Mycroft has been so painfully awkward lately.* _ Sherlock thought, pulling out a sheet of paper and a pen.

**_'You sign regards on a letter to your boyfriend? If I didn't know better, I'd think we'd broken up. I've been having a bit of a problem keeping my mind clear. Between the wedding (I took on quite a bit of the planning process) and my constant thoughts of you, I have felt a bit muddled. It occurred to me that I miss you. I've spent weeks trying to find a different phrase. 'I miss you' is just so sentimental. That is the only verbiage that will convey my thoughts, however. I considered trying to find another way to get what I need, but Mary Morstan's bridesmaid is the only way to get it. Perhaps we can use my messenger from the homeless network to set up meetings. But that would leave us open to the possibility of someone seeing us and that would be a sabotage, as you said._ **

**_I think the wedding will be especially difficult because you will be right in front of me and I won't be able to speak to you, let alone touch you. Do try to make it easy on me. Don't wear anything immodest._ **

**_Always, W. S. S. Holmes'_ **

"She will be at this address in an hour, assuming she didn't stop for food. Wait for her if she isn't in." Sherlock handed the man the letter and a ten pound note.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry, who you learned used to be a banker before he started living on the streets, made a fairly good living off of you and Sherlock in the weeks after that, as you sent letters back and forth between your flat and Baker Street. You placed the letters in a box like some sort of Rom-com protagonist and kept them by your bed. You were anxious and excited as you readied for the wedding. As you stood in front of the full-length mirror in your closet, part of you felt your dress was a bit immodest, with its v-cut neckline and clinging navy fabric, but the part of you that won out was the part that pointed to your black lace cover shawl, your elbow-length gloves and the length of the fabric. You walked out into the living room, grabbing your little clutch purse from your sofa.

"Whoa-oh! Sherlock's definitely gonna see what he lost in that dress."

Greg's words made you blush. "This is the same dress I bought before my holiday, Greg. I, actually,  _ added _ the shawl to dress it down a bit."

"Yeah, but he's not gonna be able to ignore ya lookin' like this."

"I dumped  _ him _ , Greg. I slapped him in the middle of Heathrow and walked out on  _ him _ . I'm not trying to get him back or make him regret his bullshit. I'm trying to go to a wedding with a friend and see an ex make a fool of himself." You lied with a smile.

"All right. You ready? You can put your accent on in the car." Greg put his arm around you as you laughed and walked out.

~~~~~~~~~~~

John broke away from his conversation to greet you and Lestrade, but Sherlock made sure that he never looked your way. You sneaked a million small glances at him from the second pew, though, unable to curb your pining for him in his crisp tuxedo. You left the church and headed out into the courtyard as everyone filed out, watching from the sidelines as Sherlock and the Maid of Honor stood for pictures. It was her. The Maid of Honor was the one. As you were processing what to do with the information that the gorgeous woman was Sherlock's target, (and oh, my god, why would he ever come back to you when he's made a woman like that fall in love with him?) you walked up to the Bride and Groom. "Congratulations! It was such a beautiful ceremony. Gotta love an ol' fashioned church weddin' wit' a vicar an' all."

John smiled at you, a bit of sadness behind it. "Mary, this is Y/n. She's here on Lestrade's arm."

You looked around. "Yeah. 'e disappeared. On the mobile to the wife, I s'pose."

"Y/n." Mary extended her hands, taking both of yours in hers. "It's so nice to meet you. John's said quite a lot about you." She gave a sad smile of her own. "There was a while there when Sherlock wouldn't shut up about you, but... I'm sorry about that, sweetie. I was hoping he wouldn't chase you away."

You scoffed as your brain made a decision about what to do with the information about the Maid of Honor. "Let's not talk 'bout that. This is yer day. Besides, now I don't have ta deal with 'im. 'e is all yers." You squeezed her hands and pulled away. "Look, I know you have a bunch o' people to talk to, so I'll see you at the reception." You smiled, brightly, before moving away to a small group of bridesmaids. "That dress looks beautiful. Think it says a lot 'bout a bride who can let 'er friends look beautiful with 'er."

"Oh, thank you! Yeah, Mary is really good about that kind of stuff. So, are you a friend of John's?" Janine's accent was similar to yours and it threw you a bit.

"More of a friend of a friend. Greg Lestrade introduced us. I think we were gon' be good friends, but... Sherlock Holmes will never let that 'appen."

"Oh?"

"Well, yeah. Who wants their best friend hangin' wit' their ex? An' I don't think I could much handle bein' 'round Sherlock. That man is...  _ seriously _ damaged."

"How do you mean?"

"I spent a month tryin' to get close. We are so alike. I've even got a real good head on my shoulders, but 'e wouldn't let me in. Don' think he's ever gon' let anyone in."

"Oh. Well, I'll steer clear of him." She dismissed, so you nodded and meandered away, happy for the look of intrigue in the other woman's eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As soon as you walked into the reception area, Sherlock broke away from his ordering the head waiter around and hurried on long legs across the hall before grabbing your hand and pulling you into a supply room. "Four people saw us enter. We have 2 minutes until their gossiping draws a crowd, 4 until John and Mary notice and investigate. Shout at me." Sherlock whispered, pushing you against the wall beside the door.

"I'm not gonna be nice to ya! You insulted me an' my whole family, and now you yank me into a broom closet to tell me to feck off? You need to learn some bloody manners!" You shouted at him.

"That earned us another 90 seconds." He said, running his hands down the curves of your body and kissing lightly along your jawline.

"Watch the dress." You whispered.

"I thought I asked you to keep it modest. It was all I could do to keep from staring at you during the ceremony." He whispered, placing a kiss behind your earlobe as his fingers grasped at your hips.

"Watch the hair." You whispered, breathily. "And you hid it well, Sherlock. I never saw your eyes leave their proper place. God, you Googled erogenous zones, didn't you?"

"Might have, between cases and wedding planning, worked out the statistical probability of the effectiveness of certain maneuvers."

"I'll have to send them a fruit basket." You whispered as he pushed the shawl off of your shoulders and kissed along your clavicle. "Shouldn't you be off wooing Janine?" 

He stopped and pulled back. "How did you know?" He asked, bending down to retrieve your shawl, the heat of the moment dissipated.

"You said 'bridesmaid', so I was paying attention to your interactions with them. You were talking to her outside the church. You were doing the fake aloof thing. It was easy to put together. Oh, and don't worry, I've got her hooked for you. Told her how broken and guarded you are. She's eager to fix you. All you gotta do is just reel her in."

"That's very helpful." He said, handing your shawl back.

"The quicker you get this woman falling for you, the quicker you can use her and move on. It is completely motivated by self-interest, Sherlock. I don't know how much longer I can do this." You admitted. The letters helped, but it was not enough.

"You will understand once the case is done. This is the most important case I've ever embarked upon. Bigger even than Moriarty."

You wrapped your shawl around your shoulders and kissed his cheek. "I won't be someone's other woman, Sherlock. I love you, but you're starting this thing with her today so you can rest assured that this won't happen again until after you have closed your case and ended this with her." You whispered, before slapping your hands together loudly, next to his head, and walking out. You pushed through the small crowd that had formed outside the closet and made it to Greg at Table 1 before Sherlock walked out, rubbing his cheek.

"What was that about?" Greg took a deep drink of his whiskey.

"Sherlock... bein' Sherlock. Apparently, he doesn't want me talkin' to that hot bridesmaid because he's trying to chat her up and he doesn't want 'er opinion contaminated." 

"Wow. Didn't think Sherlock would go for anyone else after you."

"Oh, thanks." You said, sarcastically.

"No, I mean, he didn't go for anyone before you, figured he wouldn't go for anyone after you."

"I know what you meant. Just felt like being ornery." Your eyes fell on Sherlock as Janine walked up to him with a champagne flute. "Look at them. Look how he's  _ leanin' _ toward her. She's Irish. Proper Irish. Somewhere around Dublin, but not Dublin."

"Thought you didn't care. Didn't want to try to get him back." Greg teased.

"Shut up, Greg. I really liked him." You shook your head. "Too bad he's such an arsehole."

"Wine?" Greg offered you a glass, which you drained quickly as the wedded couple walked up behind you.

"So, Harry?"

"Er, no. No show." John responded, sadly.

"Darling, I'm so sorry."

"It was a bit of a punt asking her, I suppose. Still, free bar- wouldn't have been a good mix. Oh. God, wow!"

"Oh, g- is that..."

"He came!" John exclaimed as he walked away from his new wife to step in front of a uniformed man with a scarred face. John snapped into a salute as Sherlock walked up.

"So, that's him. Major Sholto."

"Uh-huh."

"If they're such good friends, why does he barely even mention him?" You found that you liked the sound of jealousy in his voice. It paralleled your own.

"He mentions him all the time to me. He never shuts up about him." Mary responded.

"About  _ him _ ?"

"Mm-hmm. Ugh, I chose this wine. It's bloody awful."

"Yes, but it's definitely  _ him _ that he talks about?"

"Mm-hmm."

"I've never even heard him say his name."

"Well, he's almost a recluse- you know, since..."

"Yes."

"I didn't think he'd show up at all. John says he's the most unsociable man he's ever met."

" _ He _ is?  _ He's _ the most unsociable?" You looked down to hide a smile at the tone of Sherlock's voice.

"Mm."

"Ah,  _ that's _ why he's bouncing 'round him like a puppy."

"Oh, Sherlock! Neither of us were the first, you know!"

"Stop smiling." He demanded.

"It's my wedding day!" Mary said, indignantly as Sherlock walked away toward the back of the venue.

"Well, sounds like you're not the only who's jealous."

"Not jealous, Greg." You lied. "Just... weddings are hard fer a divorcée, ya know? Especially when yer ex-boyfriend's around... bloody everywhere. Maybe, should've stayed home. You might've been right."

"You know..." Greg put his hand on your shoulder and stood. "I think we need drinks."

"I jus' finished a drink." You argued.

"Me, too." Greg walked toward the bar without another word.

******************

You were on your third whiskey neat by the time you'd finished your creampuffs. It was hard to not look at Sherlock, but you managed it. "So, you, uh... you were the one who was... you were  _ with _ Sherlock?" A timid-looking woman in a bright yellow dress on the other side of Greg asked.  _ *Dr. Molly Hooper.* _ You recognized just based on the way she asked the invasive question.  _ *She loves him. That's unfortunate.* _

"Sherlock's never really  _ with _ anyone, you know?" You responded.

"I know, but..." Molly cast a glance at her companion then back at you. "I just was wondering what... Why he-"

"Yer on John's blog, so don't pretend you haven't read the story. I was a damn conundrum wrapped in an enigma. You know how he likes his mysteries."

"But what-"

"It really was as simple as John wrote it up. The thing he does, where he walks up and knows everythin' about ya, I did that to him and he was furious and intrigued and that's all it was so it didn't last long and he's an arse." 

Mrs. Hudson giggled. "Oh, say what you mean, Inspector."

You scoffed as the head waiter dinged a spoon against a champagne flute to get the attention of the room. "Pray silence for the Best Man." You gave a golf clap as Sherlock stood amongst cheers and clapping. You could feel his discomfort as he buttoned his jacket.

"Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends... and... er um... others." Sherlock faltered, his brow furrowing. "Er... wh... A-also..."

"Telegrams." John shook his head as he whispered, just audible from the front table.

"Right, um..." Sherlock looked around, patting his pockets, before realizing the cards were on the table in front of him. He showed the cards to the room. "First things first. Telegrams. Well, they're not actually telegrams, we just  _ call _ them telegrams. I don't know why. Wedding tradition." He said, quickly.

You leaned forward as he lifted the first card. "... because we don't have enough of that already, apparently. 'To Mr. and Mrs. Watson. So sorry I'm unable to be with you on your special day. Good luck and best wishes, Mike Stamford.'"

The Watsons gave their approval as Sherlock threw the card down and moved on. "To John and Mary. All good wishes for your special day. With love and many big... big squishy cuddles, from Stella and Ted." You couldn't help a snort as Greg and Molly both sniggered. Sherlock's discomfort was palpable as he went on. "Mary. Lot's of love..." He sighed an 'oh'.

"Yeah?" John asked.

"...poppet..." You covered your mouth and nose to prevent another porcine noise. "Oodles of love and good wishes from CAM." Sherlock moved on to the next card, moving through them in rapid-fire succession. "Um, 'Special day', 'very special day', 'love', 'love', 'love', 'love', 'lo-'; bit of a theme, you get the general gist. People are basically  _ fond _ ."

There was a bit of laughter as Sherlock stood straight. "John Watson. My friend, John Watson. John. When John first broached the subject of being Best Man, I was confused. I confess, at first I didn't realize he was asking me. When finally I understood, I expressed to him that I was both flattered and... surprised. I explained to him that I'd never expected this request and I was a little daunted in the face of it. I nonetheless promised that I would do my very best to accomplish a task which was, for me, as demanding and difficult as any I had ever contemplated. Additionally, I thanked him for the trust he'd placed in me... and indicated that I was, in some ways, very close to being moved by it. It later transpired that I had said  _ none _ of this out loud." John laughed, prompting a few of the guests to laugh, too. You were focused on Sherlock's face as he pulled several index cards out of his pocket, and you could hear him talking under his breath. "Done that... done that... done that bit... done that bit... done that bit... hmm."

He turned to John. "I'm afraid, John, I can't congratulate you." You recognized this bit. The two of you had spoken a bit, lying with each other in his hotel room bed, about how far Sherlock had come since meeting the doctor and he'd said he might put it in his speech and he'd sent you samples of ideas for the speech in your messages. So, while everyone else seemed offended, you just bit back a smile and listened. "All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things. A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world. Today we honor the death-watch beetle that is the doom of our society and, in time- one feels certain- our entire species. But anyway... let's talk about John."

"Please." John said, quietly.

"If I burden myself with a little helpmate during my adventures, it is not out of sentiment or caprice. It is that he has many fine qualities of his own that he has overlooked in his obsession with me. Indeed, any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes, in truth, from the extraordinary contrast John so selflessly provides. It is a fact, I believe, that brides tend to favor exceptionally plain bridesmaids for their big day. There is a certain analogy there, I feel." The bridesmaids all looked down, upset. "And contrast is, after all, God's own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation... or it  _ would _ be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot." Sherlock paused as everyone looked toward the vicar.

"The point I'm  _ trying _ to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-around obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous... unaware of the beautiful..." You closed your eyes as he turned to his left to look at Janine. "...and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So, if I didn't understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody's best friend. Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing." Mary hugged John to her. "John, I am a ridiculous man... redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. But, as I'm apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion."

He gave a little smile before turning to the couple. "Actually, now I  _ can _ . Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss... so sorry again about that last one... so know this- today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved; in short, the two people who love you most in all the world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will  _ never _ let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that."

You looked down at your hands as you clasped them in your lap. The women surrounding you dabbed at their eyes, but you couldn't allow yourself to show that kind of emotion for him. It was beautiful, and you'd have to write him to tell him that the written version of the speech couldn't hold a candle to his actual delivery of the words. "Ah, yes. Now on to some funny stories about John..." He looked around, noticing the crying eyes of the audience. "What's wrong? What happened? Why are you all doing that? John. Did I do it wrong?"

John stood and wrapped his friend in a tight hug. "No, you didn't. Come here."

"I haven't finished yet."

"Yeah. I know, I know."

"So, on to some funny stories..."

"Can you- can you wait 'til I sit down?"

"So, on to some funny stories about John. If you could ask just cheer up a bit, that would... Be better. On we go. So, for funny stories one has to look no further than John's blog."

"Here we go."

"The record of our time together. Of course, he does tend to romanticize things a bit, but then, you know... He's a romantic. We've talked some strange cases: the Hollow Client... the Poison Giant... We’ve had some frustrating cases... 'touching' cases... and of course, I've got to mention the Elephant in the Room. But we want something... very particular for this special day, don't we? The Bloody Guardsman." Sherlock said, regarding his phone. "Private Bainbridge had just come off guard duty. He'd stood there for hours, plenty of people watching, nothing apparently wrong. He came off duty and within minutes was nearly dead from a wound in his stomach, but there was no weapon. Where did it go? Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to consider this: a murderer who can walk through walls, a weapon that can vanish, but in all of this there is only  _ one _ element which can be said to be truly remarkable. Would anyone like to make a guess?" Sherlock looked around, waiting for someone to guess. You held your tongue. You'd read this blog. The remarkable thing was that it wasn't a murder, it was an attempted murder. Remarkable because John had saved the man's life.

"Come on, come on, there  _ is _ actually an element of Q&A to all of this." He cleared his throat, trying to compel an answer. "Scotland Yard." You closed your eyes and gave a small shake of your head as Greg lifted his head. "Have either of  _ you _ got a theory? Yeah, you. You're detectives, broadly speaking. Got a theory?"

Greg crossed his arms over his chest as you opened your eyes and finished off your whiskey. "Er, um, if the, uh, if the, if-if-if, if the blade was, er, propelled through the, um... grating in the air vent... maybe a-a ballista or a, or a, or a catapult. Erm, somebody tiny could crawl in there. So, yeah, we're loo-, we're looking for a-a-a-a dwarf." You scoffed as you reached over and took his drink. Greg was cut off.

"Brilliant." Sherlock said.

"Really?" Lestrade asked, shocked.

"No." Sherlock said, instantly. "Next!"

"He stabbed himself." Molly Hooper's companion whispered.

"Hello? Who was that?" Sherlock asked, scaring the tall, skinny floppy-haired man who stood nervously. "Tom. Got a theory?"

"Um... attempted suicide, with a blade made of compacted blood and bone; broke after piercing his abdomen... like a meat... dagger."

"A meat dagger?" Sherlock asked, flatly.

"Yes."

"Sit... down." Molly whispered, furiously.

"No." Sherlock answered as Tom sat down. "There was  _ one _ feature, and  _ only _ one feature of interest in the whole of this baffling case..."

You leaned over, whispering to Greg. "John saved the sailor. It wasn't a  _ murder, _ but an  _ attempt _ ."

"...and quite frankly it was the usual. John Watson... who, while I was trying to solve the murder, instead saved a life. There  _ are _ mysteries worth solving and stories worth telling. The best and bravest man I know, and on top of that he actually knows how to do stuff... except wedding planning and serviettes. He's rubbish at those." Greg gave you a smirk. You were right.

"True!" John admitted.

"The case, itself, remains the most ingenious and brilliantly-planned murder, or attempted murder, I've ever had the pleasure to encounter; the most perfect locked-room mystery of which I am aware. However, I'm not just here to praise John; I'm also here to embarrass him, so let's move on to some-"

"No-no, wait, so how was it- how was it done?" Greg asked, loudly.

"How was  _ what _ done?" Sherlock asked.

"The stabbing."

"He don't know." You whispered, loudly, remembering how 'Bainbridge still haunts' Sherlock.

Sherlock glared at you. "I'm afraid I don't know. I didn't solve that one. That's... It can happen sometimes. It's very... very disappointing." He looked down, then back up. "Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night. Of course there's hours of material here, but I've cut it down to the really good bits. I planned a pub crawl, themed around our friendship. A drink at a pub on every street where we've found a corpse. I figured out the perfect consumption rate and timing to optimize our experience, but somehow, we both managed to end up completely inebriated. Quite quickly, actually. A stag event that was supposed to take all night ended back at Baker Street in just over two hours."

Sherlock gave a perplexed little noise and continued. "We continued to drink as we played the Rizla game. John was Madonna and I was apparently given my own name because John wanted to tell me truths about myself. Halfway through the game, Mrs. Hudson brought us a client; a nurse who went on a date with a ghost. It was, obviously, not an  _ actual _ ghost, but a man who disappeared after a nice date. She was certain it was actually a ghost because she went to the flat of the man she dated and was told that the man died of heart attack a week previously. John kept falling asleep during the interview, had to wake him... scold him for his rudeness. The client took us to the flat. It might seem obvious, but doing what I do... it's very difficult while completely pissed. The client asked if I saw anything, I tried to get my magnifier out of my pocket. I finally wrestled it out of my pocket, went to examine  _ something _ on the shag carpet and... fell asleep. When I got pulled up, I began to yell at the landlord for compromising the integrity of the crime scene and then I vomited all over the crime scene. At some point after that, we were arrested." John looked like he was about protest but just shook his head. "Lestrade got us out. Called us 'lightweights' which I honestly can't argue with since we consumed far less alcohol than I felt would put us in that state. The hangover was monumental. More than that, I was devastated about losing that case. So interesting. A man who disappeared, a heart attack a week before.  _ That's _ a case. I knew I had messed it up, but I wasn't going to let it slip through my fingers, so I researched. I went to the website our client had brought up: [ IDatedAGhost.com](http://idatedaghost.com/) . I realized that there were others. Many of the women on the site were dismissed for various reasons, but I came back with another 4 women who had been in contact with the same man. A man stealing the identity of corpses, getting the names of single men from the Obit column of the newspapers. He was using the dead man's flat as a free love nest. Like a mayfly, he lived as the other man for a day, brought a woman to his new home and romanced her for an evening. But why those women? And what was he looking for? Not sex, of course, he hadn't slept with any of them. He was trying to find  _ something _ . They all had different occupations, all had different ideals. I thought, briefly, that they all worked for the same person, but I quickly dismissed that with a look into their employment histories. There was no cross between them, until... I asked if they had a secret. They all said 'no' immediately. A lie, of course. Everyone's got secrets and an immediate 'no' is as good as a 'yes'. I didn't understand, though, why he would date all of these women and not return their calls. John pointed out that I was missing the obvious. 'Maybe he's married'."

Sherlock sighed. "Married. Obvious, really. Our Mayfly Man was trying to escape the suffocating chains of domesticity and instead of endless night in watching the telly or going to barbecues with awful dreadful boring people he couldn't stand, he used his wits, cleverness and powers of disguise to play the field. He was..." Sherlock looked around, feeling that he'd lost the room. He looked down at John and Mary, who shook their heads at him. "On second thoughts, I probably should have told you about the Elephant in the Room. However it does help to further illustrate how invaluable John is to me. I can read a crime scene the way he can understand a human being. I used to think that's what made me special, quite frankly, I still do. But a word to the wise: should any of you require the services of either of us, I will solve your murder, but it takes John Watson to save your life. Trust me on that, I should know. He's saved mine so many times, and in so many ways."

He held up his phone as you took a drink from Greg's cup. "This blog is the story of two men and their frankly ridiculous adventures..." He smiled as the other guests chuckled. "...of murder, mystery and mayhem. But from now on, there's a new story. A bigger adventure. Ladies and gentlemen, pray charge your glasses and be upstanding." He picked up his glass and everyone followed suit. The photographer stepped to the front to take a picture of the end of the toast as everyone stood and Sherlock continued. "Today begin the adventures of Mary Elizabeth Watson and John Hamish Watson. The two reasons why every single one of us is..." He froze as the photographer began to snap away.

You looked from Sherlock to Greg as the champagne flute tumbled from Sherlock's hand. "...here today." Sherlock looked down at the smashed glass. "Ooh, sorry. I..." The MC ran to give him another glass. "Thank you, yes. Thank you, yes. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Raising glasses and standing up. Very good. Thank you. And down again." Sherlock gestured for everyone to sit back down. He looked out at the crowd as everyone sat, grumbling. You blinked as you tried to put yourself in his shoes. Something had clicked in the man's head. "Ladies and gentlemen, people tell you not to milk a good speech. Get off early, leave 'em laughing. Wise advice I'll certainly try to bear in mind, but for now..." He put one hand on the table and vaulted easily over it. "Part two! Part two is more action-based. I'm gonna.. walk around, shake things up a bit." He said, walking down the aisle, analyzing every table. "Who'd go to a wedding? That's the question. Who would bother to go to any lengths to get themselves to a wedding? Well, everyone. Weddings are great! Love a wedding."

"What's he doing?" Mary asked John, quietly.

"Something's wrong." John answered, his voice concerned as Sherlock turned back around.

"And John's great, too! Haven't said that enough. Barely scratched the surface. I could go on all night about the depth and complexity of his... jumpers... and he can cook. Does... a... thing... thing with peas... once. Might not be peas, might not be him. But he's got a great singing voice... or somebody does." He started to spin, moving from table to table. "Ahh, too many, too many, too many, too many!" He grimaced, angry, before taking a breath. "Sorry. Too many jokes about John! Now, er... where was I? Ah, yes, speech! Speech. Let's talk about... murder." You gasped. You could follow the man now. Someone was going to be killed, someone at the wedding, and Sherlock was having a time trying to figure out who.

"Sorry, did I say 'murder'? I meant to say 'marriage'. But you know, they're quite similar procedures when you think about it. The participants tend to know each other, and it's over when one of them's dead. In fairness, murder is a lot quicker, though. Janine! What about this one? Acceptably hot?" He walked over behind a bespectacled man, his hand going behind his back as he tapped on his mobile phone. "More importantly, his girlfriend's wearing brand-new uncomfortable underwear and hasn't bothered to pick this thread off the top of his jacket, or point out the grease smudge on the back of his neck. Currently, he's going home alone. Also, he's a comics and sci-fi geek. They're always tremendously grateful, really put the hours in. Geoff, the gents." You poked Greg who nodded at Sherlock. "The loos, now, please."

"It's Greg." Lestrade protested.

"The loos, please."

"Why?" Greg asked as his phone beeped and he pulled it out.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's your turn." Sherlock said, nodding at the door.

Greg looked at his phone, which contained a text that said **Lock this place down.** "Yeah, actually, now you mention it..." Greg stood, heading for the door as you turned in your chair and blinked at the room. _*Who would get murdered here? Who would get murdered at a wedding? Someone you could_ **_only_** _murder at a wedding. Someone who never leaves the house. Someone... like an Army Major who lives a life of solitude since he's been put through the ringer by the press and the families of the young men who died in his care. Shit, how will it happen? Ooh, what if it's already happened? What if it's like that Bainbridge fella? Same sort of uniform. What about the uniform? It's gotta be that, then... what about that... tight belt. The webbing belt. Holds the wound together. Kinda brilliant, actually. Sholto is the target. Sherlock will figure that out in no time. Okay, so who?_ You kept sweeping your eyes around the room. _Who's missing? Who walked out at the beginning of Sherlock's weirdness? The photographer. The photographer? Yes, out the side door while Sherlock was rambling. It's gotta be him. Bainbridge said the stalker was taking pictures.*_ You reached out and pulled Greg's keys off of the table before standing and sliding along the wall until you made it to the door. You slipped out of the reception hall and out to the parking lot, getting in the car and peeling out of the hotel's parking lot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you pulled back into the parking lot, Greg was standing in the parking lot, patting his clothes in an obvious attempt to locate his keys. You smiled at him as you pulled the photographer out of the backseat. "When'd you swipe my keys? And is that the photographer? How'd you know?"

"I'm clever. I know where the clever man's thoughts went." You said, simply, as you pushed the photographer toward Lestrade. "Go on, take 'im in."

"Why don't-"

"Because I can see 'im! Sherlock is dancing with 'er right inside the foyer. He's so intent to impress this bird that 'e's dancin'! An' if I go in there, I'll start a fight. So just take the photographer and don't mention me. Tell him you found 'im yerself."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You sneaked into the foyer as Greg was driving off with the would-be murderer. Almost as soon as you closed the door behind you, Mary walked out of the reception hall. "DI Murphy. I was hoping you weren't going to disappear with Greg."

"Well, ya know... Cake. Who could turn away free cake?"

"You disappeared. During Sherlock's speech, you disappeared. I thought, maybe, you were getting a start on locking down the hotel, but then you showed up with the murderer in tow. You figured it out before Sherlock did, didn't you?"

"Sherlock didn't care until you lot cared. Caring is my default."

"And you didn't take the opportunity to show him up in front of everyone?"

"That's not why I do this. My reasons might be a wee bit more complicated than Sherlock's but I, for sure, don' do it fer praise."

"Well, you are the reason that young man is going to prison. As far as I'm concerned, you are always welcome at the Watson house."

"Well, that's a very nice gesture, Mary, but we both know Sherlock would throw a fit."

"Well, Sherlock doesn't run my house... yet. And besides, you deserve to have more than one friend."

You had never really considered yourself lonely, but Mary had a bit of a point. You only had Greg. "Thank you. I'll keep it in mind. Now, don't you have a first dance to get done?"

"Don't forget to get some cake." Mary said with a wink.

Half an hour later, you sat on the stairs near the service entrance and listened to Sherlock play violin. The end of the song was met with applause and whoops from the guests. "Ladies and gentlemen, just, er, one last thing before the evening begins properly. Apologies for earlier. A crisis arose and was dealt with. More importantly, however, today we saw two people make vows. I've never made a vow in my life, and after tonight I never will again. So here, in front of you all, my first and last vow. Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will  _ always _ be there,  _ always _ , for all three of you. Er, I'm sorry, I mean, I mean two of you. All  _ two _ of you.  _ Both _ of you, in fact. I've just miscounted. Anyway, it's time for dancing. Play the music again, please, thank you." Frankie Valli started to play.  _ *Oh, good for the Watsons. They'll be good parents.* _ "Okay, everybody, just dance. Don't be shy! Dancing please! Very good!"

You sat on the stairs in the foyer, eating a piece of cake you'd sneaked away, when Sherlock walked out of the dance hall with his coat. He stopped, looked behind him, then sat next to you. "You shouldn't. Someone might see." You whispered, in your native accent, looking around for possible witnesses.

"They're dancing. They're quite distracted. I have to know. Why would you ever want to love me?"

"It's not exactly a choice, now, is it?" You responded without looking at him.

"Well, not the chemicals, but you can choose how to react to the hormone overload."

"If it were just a high, I would have crashed already, Sherlock. During the month I was away from you with no contact. But it didn't dissipate, it grew. I couldn't stop thinking about you. I still can't. I think I love you, Sherlock... and  _ this _ lie... how easily you manipulate that woman..." You couldn't help the tears forming in your eyes.

"I'm not manipulating  _ you _ . I have never manipulated you. I  _ will _ never manipulate you. She is nothing, a means to an end."

You turned to him, setting the plate and plastic fork on a higher step. "Sherlock... you are the only thing I have wanted since Arianna died. You are the only thing I have let myself care about. I don't even really have friends, Sherlock. I have Greg and now I have you. If this is a game or an experiment, if you are playing me,  _ please _ , tell me now."

Sherlock turned to you and took your hands. "Were I not in the midst of a very important case against a villain who is more detrimental to this country than Moriarty was, I would gladly prove to you that my intentions are honest. I would do whatever necessary to show my commitment to you and this relationship. Please. Just stand by and wait."

"That sounded...earnest."

"It is earnest. I earnestly believe we should be together. But this case, this is more important than us. I am not playing games with you."

You stood and wiped your eyes. "Well, then, Sherlock... I will see you in a while. I'll send a letter with Harry."

"Who? Oh, the messenger. Of course."

"You really need to get better with names, Sherlock."

"I know the names of the people I care about. It only took two meetings for me to know your name."

"And you still don't know Greg's name."

"He responds to 'Geoff', why should I call him 'Greg'?"

"Right." You chuckled as you started to walk away.

"Oh, and, Y/n?" You turned back to him. "When did you figure out the photographer had tried to kill Sholto? You left right after I told Greg to shut the hotel down. Must have gone to catch the perp."

"Around the time you figured out that he was the target. Didn't want to steal your thunder. I'm sure there was a very dramatic scene with John when you figured it all out."

"You are too smart to be a DI, Y/n. I do so wish you would leave Scotland Yard."

"I've got different priorities, Holmes."

"Maybe I can help you change those."

"If anybody can, it's you." You looked down at the coat in his hands. "Are you leaving? Do you need a ride?"

"Thought we weren't supposed to be seen together?" Sherlock said, standing and putting his coat on.

"They're dancing." You quoted him. "Besides, Baker Street is on my way."

"Didn't you ride with Lestrade?"

"I called a taxi. Come on."


	4. Rehab

The letters didn't come as often over the weeks following the wedding, but you assumed that was due to Janine's increased presence in his life and at Baker Street. Where you were getting letters daily, sometimes multiple in a day, you started getting one or two a week. He told you that the only time he was able to write to you was when he was traveling to Cambridge to use the lab there (he wasn't exactly forthcoming on why he needed the chem lab on a biweekly basis) because that was the only time Janine wasn't around and he wasn't busy with cases. It still bugged you that Janine was getting to spend all of her free time with him, all of _his_ free time, so you took to hanging with John and Mary whenever you had the chance. Their little house in the 'burbs was a sweet oasis in the middle of a desert of loneliness and stress from work. You gave Mary your suggestions on morning sickness and pregnancy fitness and helped John ready the nursery.

While Sherlock was off avoiding the Watsons so they wouldn't catch on that he and Janine were 'dating', you made friends. You were happy for it, for the opportunity to spend time with Sherlock's people and to make them your people. Your first new friends since Greg picked you. Yes, Gregory Lestrade had _chosen_ you, taken you under his wing for absolutely no reason. Seeing you were damaged, seeing you were content alone, seeing you were too clever for your own good, seeing that there was darkness in you, Greg had picked you and helped you and showed you years of kindness and now you were able to show the same to others. You could tell, as the weeks passed, that John was getting restless. He wasn't being friendly with the neighbors, he was getting more and more irritable and all the paternal excitement was being replaced with stress and worry. You did your best to keep his mind occupied while you were there, but there wasn't much you could do for him.

You hadn't heard from Sherlock in almost a week when your mobile phone rang, 'Unknown' shining up at you from the screen. You sighed and answered, anyway. "Murphy."

"Inspector Murphy, Mycroft Holmes. I was hoping to get your assistance."

"What can I help you with, Mr. Holmes?" You asked, easily slipping back into your American accent. You hoped this wasn't the 'I found the letters you've been sending my brother' call.

"Well, my dear brother seems to have gotten into a bit of trouble. I thought, perhaps, we could count on you for assistance and _discretion_."

"What kind of trouble?" You had to fight to keep your voice steady, to keep the worry out of your voice.

"Well, suppose John found Sherlock in a flop house with enough narcotics in his system to euthanize a horse. Would you be inclined to help get him back on the straight and sober path?"

Rage and concern filled you to the brim. "Supposing that happened, where might I find him?"

"John would have taken him to St. Bart's to test him, of course."

"I'll take care of it, Mycroft." You said, hanging up without waiting for his response and immediately ringing John. "Don't say anything except 'yes' or 'no', John. Did you find Sherlock in a crack house coked out of his mind?"

"Yes? How did you-" John started, but you hung up.

By the time you made it to St. Bart's and found the lab your boyfriend and his friends were occupying, you were seething, your breathing short. You walked into the lab and nodded, angrily, at the group. "Wiggins."

The skinny addict looked down. "M'am."

"You know each other?" Mary asked, looking between you.

"Yeah. I arrested him a few times when I was in Narcotics. Billy thought it'd be a good idea to stab me in the back while I cuffed one of his mates." You turned to him. "Was that a good idea, Billy?"

"No, m'am."

"All right. Everyone out, except Sherlock... and you can expect a visit from yer PSO, Bill."

Everyone got up and began to shuffle out, but Molly stood defiantly. "Excuse me, but I work here. You can't-"

"I can. Because unless you want yer bosses and my Narcotics guys lookin' into every favor you have ever done fer this _junkie_ , you will vacate." Molly looked terrified as she remembered the bodies she had let Sherlock had abuse. She hung her head and started to leave. "Take a chair for Mary. Might be a while and we don't want her swellin'." You turned to Sherlock as soon as the door shut. "This is what you meant when you said that people were gonna be pissed about your plan? Not you abusing Janine's trust, but you abusing _drugs_? And you were fine to tell me about your plan for that poor woman but you wouldn't tell me about this?" You whispered, furiously, dropping out of the accent. "The last letter you sent me was so shaky and confusing that I could barely understand it. You were high when you wrote it, weren't you?"

"I couldn't tell you, Y/n. You would have tried to stop me. It is your job to-"

"You're damn right I would have tried to stop you, but not because it's my job, you imbecile." You interrupted. "I would have tried to stop you because I _love_ you and I don't want you sitting in a house with a bunch of addicts injecting liquid death into your arm."

"Dramatics." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm very careful with my chemicals."

"Oh, so you got poppies and synthesized your own? Or watched an apothecary do it? There was nowhere along the entire supply route that it could have been contaminated, you idiot? You could have overdosed in that house and _no one_ would have known where you were."

"This case is-"

"Stop. Who is it?" You shook your head, upset that angry tears were trying to make you look weak. "I haven't asked before now because it didn't seem that important. It was just a case that was keeping you from seeing me. Now it is a case that's important enough for you to relapse, for you to kill yourself. So, who?"

"Charles Magnussen. I've been charged by a council woman with retrieving some potentially damaging letters that Magnussen is-" He was excited to finally be telling you, but you cut him off.

"That's not it. You could have just stopped at him name, because you don't care, at all, about some government toady, or how the man is damaging the country. You care about the fact that dozens have tried to stop him in the past and they've all failed. You care about being the one to _succeed._ You care about winning... and that's worth all this." You stepped away from him and shook your head. "When this is all done, when you finally _get_ him, when you win... you get yourself to rehab, get yourself sober, and call me."

"I believe I'll be done with Janine within the next few days. I'll call you then."

You stepped toward him again, growling. "You aren't hearing me. Call me when you are sober." You turned on your heels, boots thudding against the tile.

"I thought you loved me." Sherlock's voice was teasing and you could _feel_ the manipulation in his tone.

You stopped halfway to the door and turned back, glaring. "Excuse me?"

"I was under the impression that people stuck by the people they love through difficult times and sicknesses."

You stomped back over and got as close to in his face as you could. "I do love you. I love _Sherlock Holmes_. This..." You gestured at him, disgusted. "...isn't the Sherlock I fell in love with. You know, the Sherlock who promised to never manipulate me? I guess he just stops existing when you get high."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. "I think a kiss would feel amazing in my current state." You angrily pushed your hands down to break his hold on you and twisted out of his grasp, heading for the door again. "Oh, well. I suppose I'll have to go home and experiment with Janine. It won't be as good, but... it will have to do."

"And that's _two_." You growled, before jerking the door open and walking out into the hall. Sherlock sighed and walked out after you.

"Is Shezza being arrested?" Wiggins asked, cradling his arm.

"No. _Sherlock_ isn't being arrested. Intoxication, by itself, isn't a crime, but _you_ might be goin' back."

"What for?"

"All I need is for Dr. Watson to corroborate that you were in a known drug den and that you accosted him with a knife and that's two violations, Billy. So, shut up."

"How'd you know he accosted me with a knife?" John asked, his voice a little huffy.

"His arm's sprained. Location says someone shorter than 'im did it. You. If you sprained his arm, he had to've been a danger to ya, he attacked you. His weapon of choice is a knife, like the one he put in my back 5 years ago. It's not hard to put together."

"Don't get her mad, Billy. She might slap you, and her assaults are much stronger than Molly's." Sherlock said, walking out of the lab.

You bristled at his voice. "Mary, can you drive Billy home? To his actual home, not the crack house." Mary nodded, so you turned to John. "John, make sure _he_ gets back to Baker street." John nodded.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock hadn't meant to antagonize y/n. He hadn't even meant to manipulate her. He'd just wanted to touch her, had dreaded going back to Janine unless he knew that she still had his back. Of course, he'd known she was going to be upset when she found out about the drugs, but he was hoping to be done with Magnussen before that happened. No such luck.

Dealing with Mycroft was always difficult and dealing with him while coming down from a high (which, admittedly, was not the most quality high. He'd have to have a conversation with his dealer) was even more difficult. He sent him away, with a bit of violent flair, and then Janine made herself known to John and then Sherlock told him about Magnussen and invited him to play the new game. Unfortunately, that new game included buying an engagement ring to propose to Janine and gain access to Charles Magnussen's office at the Global News building. When the jeweler asked him to tell him about the lucky woman, Sherlock felt compelled to describe his real 'lucky woman', his Detective Inspector, his sentimental American counterpart, but after going on about her for five minutes (and getting a recommendation that actually seemed like her perfect ring) he instead pointed to a random ring and said, "That one."

'That one' got him and John on the elevator, got him into Magnussen's office, and got him a bullet through his chest. As he rushed around his memory palace, trying to find something to calm him and keep him out of shock, he found Redbeard, lying at y/n's feet. He called to the dog, who bounded at him, happily, but she just stood smiling down at him. "You're better than I am, genius. I went into shock before I even finished killing myself."

"Y/n, are you going to help me?" He asked, petting the dog and ruffling its fur.

She shook her head. "Not with this, Sherlock. See, shock has its uses and without it, you're going to feel the pain."

"There's a hole ripped through you. Massive internal bleeding. You have to control the pain." Molly demanded.

She disappeared from the hallway and Sherlock went rushing for a way to control his pain. He found her again in a room, petting a straightjacketed man who was chained to the wall, quite like he'd been petting Redbeard. "Control, control, control." He breathed heavily, before noticing who the crazed man was. "You. You never felt pain, did you? Why did you never _feel_ pain?"

"You always feel it, Sherlock." He jerked away from her and jumped at Sherlock. "But you don't have to fear it!" Sherlock fell to the ground, groaning. "Pain. Heartbreak. Loss. Death. It's all good. It's all good. It's raining. It's pouring. Sherlock is boring." He leaned down, getting down on his knees to be closer to Sherlock. "I'm laughin'. I'm cryin'. Sherlock is dying. Come on, Sherlock. Just die, why don't you? One little push, and off you pop."

"You're gonna _love_ being dead, Sherlock." Y/n went to her knees next to him and petted his hair.

"No one ever bothers you." Moriarty provided.

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson will cry."

"And Mummy and Daddy will cry." Moriarty stood, playing a bit with his chain. "And the Woman will cry and John will cry buckets and buckets. It's him that I worry about the most. That wife... You're lettin' him down, Sherlock. John Watson is definitely in danger."

"Oh, that'll do it." Y/n whispered, as Sherlock's eyes popped open. "You know he doesn't care about the tears."

"Oh, you're not gettin' better, are you? Was it something I said, huh?" Sherlock grunted as he wrenched open the door and ran out. "Sherlock!"

"'John Watson is in danger'. Is that really what it takes? Nothing else worth fighting for?" Y/n called from the next flight of stairs. "Really?"

"He knows you can take care of yourself." Molly said, sitting next to her on the stairs.

"But John can't?"

"Of course, he can." Molly chuckled. "But Sherlock wouldn't want John to have to."

"Well, he's making it. Suppose he doesn't need us anymore." Y/n and Molly disappeared as Sherlock pulled himself up the handrail of the staircase.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You ran into the hospital, heading for the reception desk to find Sherlock's room, when John and Mary walked out of a waiting area and waved you down. "Did Magnussen shoot him?" You whispered, sans accent, as soon as you were in front of him.

John's eyebrows dropped. "How-how did you know about Magnussen?"

"I'd love to pretend I figured it out because I'm clever, but Sherlock told me."

"He told you? When?"

"Yesterday, in the lab, he told me that it was Charles Magnussen he was going after, but I knew that he was on a case for months."

"Wait. What?" John shook his head, not understanding.

You sighed. "Sherlock and I never really broke up, but he couldn't get with Janine if he was still with me, so we staged it. The airport, the tiff at the wedding, all of it. Except yesterday, I _really_ was upset about the drugs."

"Magnussen didn't shoot him, there was someone else there, trying to get something from Magnussen. They shot him." Mary filled in, but not really seeming surprised that you hadn't really broken up with Sherlock.

"Okay. Okay." John moved like he was going to walk away and immediately came back. "So, you have been seeing Sherlock this whole time." He accused.

"No." You responded.

"But you said-"

"I _said_ the breakup was staged and he'd told me about the plan. But it had to be flawless, believed by everyone. So, the only time I saw him was your wedding and yesterday. Didn't even text. Had a little messenger service going with one of his homeless people, but we weren't _seeing_ each other."

"So, what do you know about Magnussen?" John decided to drop it. "I mean, who else could have been there?"

"It could have been almost anyone." You answered with a sigh. "Magnussen has dirt on dozens of people, myself included, all who would have had to shoot Sherlock to conceal their identity."

"Magnussen has been blackmailing you?" Mary asked, her eyes searching your face.

"Might be the time to mention that I didn't shoot Sherlock." You whispered, with a bit of amusement. "Yes, Magnussen knows where I'm from and promised to make the stories read that I'd slept my way to Detective, even though I haven't had sex since months before my ex-husband went back to America." You shook your head. "He, also, has my medical records, both of which would destroy my career if certain people found out about them."

"And what has he done to you? What's the blackmail?" John asked, his body going stiff with anger.

"Nothing, but it doesn't matter. A lot of his... victims, which I don't identify with 'victim' but whatever, he keeps his victims in his pocket to be used later. He hasn't needed me, yet, but the threat that I might have to choose between my integrity or my livelihood, throwing a case or throwing away my entire career, the most important thing I have ever had one day... it was enough to keep me in line." You sighed. "But none of that matters. What matters is that Sherlock is the only one who could tell you who shot him, and I'm gonna go talk to him."

As you ascended the stairs to Sherlock's room, you passed Janine, immediately furious at her stories in the tabloids. "You should enjoy your fame and money while ya got it, Janine, 'cause you know Magnussen ain' gon' let ya get work anytime soon, what with yer terrible failure that resulted in a man shot in his office."

"Oh! The ex, right?"

You couldn't help the smirk on your lips. "The current, actually. The _always._ "

She chuckled. "Oh. Sherlock didn't mention you were crazy and obsessed with him."

You giggled. "We broke up because he _needed_ you, luv, but the plan was always to get back together as soon as the case was over. Now, if yer done, miss. I've got to go talk to a man about a bullet." You smiled tightly at her as you brushed by her on the stairwell.

"We had an amazing time. Every night. Sometimes multiples."

You laughed, loudly, bending a bit as you held onto the railing. "You are _pathetic_ if you think I believe you. More pathetic 'cause ya think I care. I gave him permission ta shag ya, an' he still chose not to." You called out.

"So, you were with him the whole time?"

"Nope. Dinnae even talk more'an twice since we left each other at the airport. But I have patience, Janine." You took the remaining stairs 2 at a time and entered Sherlock's room slowly. He turned his head as you walked in. You smiled softly, at him, and sat next to him on the bed. "How are you doing, Sherlock?"

"As well as can be expected. I am in an extraordinary amount of pain." He groaned.

"Well, you got shot." You looked over at the machine tasked with dripping his morphine. "Did you turn off your morphine? Why would you do that?"

"I am trying to think. It's not conducive for... being the man you fell in love with."

His words gave you a pang of guilt. "But you're actually in _pain_ , Sherlock. You need those meds."

"No. I _need_ to think."

"Then, let me help you think. Who better, right?" You scooted closer to him. "So tell me, who shot you?"

Sherlock shook his head, slightly. "I am sure that the person who shot me did so out of necessity, to keep their identity safe."

"You aren't using gendered pronouns, means you were shot by a woman."

"How does that mean that?" He asked, irritated.

"Someone you want to protect, maybe? Is it Mary?" You asked, looking into his eyes. "She seemed like she was a little too aware of Magnussen, maybe being blackmailed, too, when I was talking to them."

"Too?"

"Oh, look, something you _don't_ know." You smiled and chuckled. "He knows all about me, Sherlock. Got a hold of a copy of my birth certificate and my medical records and threatened to ruin my career and the careers of my Chief Supers by writing that I slept my way to my promotions."

"I didn't know." He admitted, softly.

"Sherlock, please, don't go after him, anymore." You begged. "He will ruin me... and Mary. Whatever he has on her, it must be worse than mine, since it was worth shooting you to protect."

"This is even more reason to take him down. But... I have to figure out how to..." Sherlock sat up and pulled the IV from his arm.

"Sherlock. Please. I love you. Would it make any difference if I told you that Magnussen told me to get you under control or he'd release my story and ruin my career?" You looked up at him as he stood on slightly shaky legs.

"Y/n..." Sherlock cupped your chin and looked into your eyes. "I love you but your career being in peril is the least interesting part of this case."

Your heart soared at the words, but you knew that more important things were happening. "Knew you'd say that. Told Magnussen you were not to be controlled. He told me that I could read my career burning in the morning paper. By tomorrow evening, Metro will have fired to me to save as much face as possible. I hope you weren't joking when you suggested I come to work as a Consulting Detective."

He smirked down at you as you stood. "I guess I managed to change your priorities, after all."

"That's true, I guess, but I _am_ being fired of you, so you better not do anything to fuck this up." You reached up to smooth his bedhead hair. "What is the plan, Mr. Holmes?"

"I'll have to expose Mary to John. Unpleasant, but necessary. Might need your help with that. I am going to disappear from the room, John, Lestrade and Mary will come looking for me, though not together. John and Lestrade will come to you first, mention Mary's perfume. Tell them I said something about-"

"Claire de la lune. Got it." You knew the perfume well. You loved her perfume. You sighed and handed him his coat. "And what do I tell Mary?"

"To speak to Anderson."

You sighed again as you watched him pull his coat on. "You know, when this is all over... before you have Magnussen in cuffs..." You stepped up to him, placing your hands on his arms. "...we're gonna talk about what you just said."

Sherlock knew what you meant. "No need to discuss it, really. Can't you feel it without talking about it?" He looked down at you, a very soft look on his face.

"No. I'm a woman, Sherlock. We like to talk about our loves, endlessly."

Sherlock scoffed and nodded. "Later."

"Yes. You have a daring escape to make. Good luck."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were the last one to see him, now he's missing." Greg said, standing in your office.

"I don't know anything about it. Sorry." You responded, Irish accent in place, looking up at them from your desk chair.

"He didn't say anything?" John asked, frustration pulling his voice tight.

"I didn't really stick 'round long. They had 'im on morphine, an' Sherlock on opiates is a Sherlock I don't wanna talk to."

"Nothing? His girlfriend comes to see him and he gives you nothing?" John urged.

You shook your head. "I asked him who shot him, but he was gone on the drugs. He mumbled somethin' 'bout 'Claire de la Lune' and then he turned his head and passed out again. I didn't try to wake him. Sorry, mates. I got no clue."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As you sat in your flat later that night, you received a text from Sherlock: **baker street now. watsons having a domestic. need mediation. SH.**

As you walked up the stairs, you could hear the conversation in 221B. "Oh, I mean it, seriously. _Everything_. Everything you've ever done is what you did." Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, one more word and you will not need morphine." John said, as you stopped on the stairs.

"You were a doctor who went to war. You're a man who couldn't stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. That's me, by the way. Hello. Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel."

"It was my _husband's_ cartel. I was just typing."

" _And_ exotic dancing."

"Sherlock Holmes, if you've been YouTube-ing..."

"John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people... so, is it _truly_ such a surprise that the woman you've fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?"

"But she wasn't supposed to _be_ like that. Why is she like that?"

"Because you _chose_ her."

"Why is everything... _always_ ... _MY FAULT_?!" John shouted, before the sound of furniture toppling. You ran up the remaining stairs as Mrs. Hudson twittered about the neighbors.

"Go on, Doctor. Calm down a bit." You said, pushing into the doorway with Sherlock.

"Oh, what is she doing here? She figure out my wife's true identity, too?"

"I texted her. Friendly police presence to calm the situation as much as possible." Sherlock answered.

"Why do you get her?" John asked, forcefully. Mary looked like she'd been kicked. "Why do you get the normal one?"

You sighed, shaking your head. "I am not normal, John. I'm a _lot_ more like Sherlock than I let on."

"No. There are other clever people, ones who don't end up like him...or her." He nodded toward his wife. "You aren't like them."

You stepped out of the doorway and into the living room. "John, I've spent the last decade as a woman with one friend who hides behind an accent and an attitude. I devoted myself to the people who couldn't find my daughter because for ten years the only happiness I got was from solving cases. I _let_ Bill Wiggins stab me because Narcotics was boring and I needed an excuse to transfer. I cried tears of joy when Sherlock told me my daughter was dead. That's not normal. Neither is choosing Sherlock, which we both did, John. He didn't choose us, we chose not to be pushed away like everyone else. Not normal."

John glared at you for a moment, then turned to stare at Mary as Sherlock started to speak. "John, listen. Be calm and answer me. What _is_ she?"

"My lying wife?"

"No. What is she?"

"The woman who's carrying my child who has lied to me since the day I met her?"

"No. Not in this flat. Not in this room. Right her, right now, what _is_ she? What is y/n?" Sherlock pressed.

John sniffed, deeply and looked between Mary and Sherlock. "Okay. _Your_ way. _Always_ your way." Sherlock dropped his head sadly, as John cleared his throat and grabbed two dining table chairs, dragging them to the fireplace. "Sit." He demands of the women.

"Why?" Mary asked.

"Because that's where they sit..." John stood straight. "...the people who come in here with their stories. Th-the clients. That's all _you_ are now, Mary. You're a client. This is where you sit and talk..." He gestured to the armchairs. "...and this is where we sit and listen, then we decide if we want you or not." John sniffed and sat down in his chair, adjusting the pillow behind his back. Sherlock looked down and crossed the room, sitting in his own chair.

"You all know my story, and it's boring... and over. By tomorrow, I will have been fired, so don't be spiteful, John." You said, moving your chair next to Sherlock's.

"I'm sorry. I know how important your job is to ya." Mary said, moving to sit in the chair across from the fireplace.

"It's fine. I can help the boys." You said, turning to Sherlock and whispering. "You don't look so good. You gonna make it through this?"

"Already called emergency. Don't worry." Sherlock whispered back.

Mary placed a grey USB drive on the table next to John's chair, AGRA written on it in black Sharpie. "'A.G.R.A.' What's that?" Sherlock asked, pain evident in his voice and face. You reached your hand over and covered his on the armrest of the chair.

"Er... my initials." She said, looking at John, whose face dropped as he looked away from her. "Everything about who I was is on there. If you love me, don't read it in front of me." She told John.

"Why?"

"Because you won't love me when you've finished... and I don't want to see that happen." She finished tearfully. She looked down as John snatched the drive from the table and shoved it into his pants pocket. Mary sighed and looked across to Sherlock. "How much d'you know already?"

"By your skill set, you are-or _were_ , an intelligence agent. Your accent is currently English but I suspect you are not. You're on the run from something; you've used your skills to disappear. Magnussen knows your secret, which is why you were going to kill him; and I assume you befriended Janine..." Sherlock grimaced, shifting in the chair. You looked up worriedly, but didn't interrupt him. "...in order to get close to him."

"Oh, _you_ can talk!" Mary said, prompting a smile from Sherlock.

"Oh, _look_ at you two. _You_ should have got married." John exclaimed.

Mary looked sadly at John, then continued. "The stuff Magnussen has on me, I would go to prison for the rest of my life."

"So, you were just gonna kill him?" John accused.

"People like Magnussen _should_ be killed. That's why there are people like me."

"Perfect! So that's what you were? An assassin? How could I _not_ see that?" He asked, looking at Sherlock.

"You _did_ see that... and you married me. Because he's right... it's what you like."

"So... _Mary_... any documents that Magnussen has concerning yourself, you want..." You tightened your grip on Sherlock's hand as he groaned. "...extracted and returned."

"Why would you help me?" Mary asked.

"Because... you saved my life."

"I'm sorry, what?" You and John both said at the same time.

"When I happened on you and Magnussen, you had a problem. More specifically, you had a witness. The solution, of course, was simple. Kill us both and leave. However, sentiment got the better of you. One precisely-calculated shot to incapacitate me... in the hope that it would bide you more time to negotiate my silence. Of course, you couldn't shoot Magnussen on the night that both of us broke into the building. Your own husband would become a suspect, so... you calculated... that Magnussen... would use the fact of your involvement rather than sharing the information with the police... as is his M.O. and then you left the way you came. Have I missed anything?"

"How did she save your life?" John asked.

"She phoned the ambulance."

" _I_ phoned the ambulance." John argued.

"She phoned first. You didn't find me for another five minutes. Left to you, I would have died. The average arrival time for a London ambulance is..." Sherlock pulled his hand from yours to look at his watch as two paramedics ran into the flat.

"Did somebody call an ambulance?" John stood, in confusion, as the paramedics looked around.

"...eight minutes. Did you bring any morphine? I asked on the phone."

"We were told there was a shooting."

"There _was..._ last week..." Sherlock put his fingers on his pulse point and took a sharp breath. "...but I believe I'm bleeding internally and my pulse is very erratic." You stood to help him up, worry flooding your system at his words and tone. "You may need to restart my heart on the way." He said, his knees going weak as everyone moved to help him.

"Come on, Sherlock. Come on, Sherlock." John said, holding him up. You stepped back with Mary as the medics rushed forward.

"John. John, Magnussen is all that matters now. You can trust Mary. She saved my life."

"She shot you."

"Er, mixed messages, I'll grant you. That is a..." Sherlock grimaced, crying out.

John helped him to the floor. "Sherlock? Sherlock. All right, take him. Got him?" Everyone looked down at the man as the medics put an oxygen mask on him and pulled him out of the flat.

You looked between the Watsons. You wanted to run after the ambulance and follow him back to the hospital and ensure that he was safe, but as you looked between them, you decided against it. Your friends needed you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You sighed, closing your eyes as you walked into your chief superintendent's office. This is where you get fired. As he stood to close the door, you reached over to grab his mobile phone off of his desk and fiddled with it before putting it back on his desk. He came back around and sat in his rolling desk chair. "I am sure you've seen the papers. It's a mess, all this business with your birth certificate and the promotions. We're going to have to ask you to step down, y/n."

"Jus' to be clear, you are askin' me to step down from a position I rightfully earned because some newspaper made some claims without any evidence?"

"You can step down and keep part of your pension, Miss Murphy, or we can transfer you to traffic control. We need to do what's best for Metro."

"That's not why yer getting rid of me. Yer afraid that if the papers keep repeatin' and makin' baseless allegations, yer wife is gonna realize that you got a mistress."

The man's eyes went wide. "Excuse me?"

"She's either a young one or she's desperately hanging on to whatever youth she has left, judging by the amount of glitter ya got on yer neck. Either way, she's doin' an amazing job o' keepin' yer midlife crisis going."

He rubbed at his neck. "Now, I don't know what you think you're-"

"You know, people like Magnussen, who pander to the lowest common denominator, they would pay a lot of money fer my observations. The things that made me such a great detective, they would make me a lot of money in the secrets game."

"If you tell anyone..." The man stood, trying to intimidate you.

"Oh, don't worry, Chief. Yer secret is safe with me. Yer wife might not be so nice, though." You nodded toward his phone on the desk, with his wife's smiling profile picture shining up. "Speed dial one. Oh, and let me be absolutely clear on this." You stood and dropped the accent. "You can go to Hell with your traffic control bullshit. I'm a detective inspector and I will be no less for Metro or any other law enforcement agency. I quit."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You entered Sherlock's hospital room and sat next to the bed. His morphine was on max and his eyes were barely open. "Nurses said you went missing earlier. They couldn't find you for hours."

"I was in the canteen." He responded, lethargically.

"Not the canteen here." You pushed his hair out of his face and smiled down at him. "The food's not so bad that you need to put yourself in danger, Sherlock."

"Scotland Yard fired you." Sherlock's eyes opened a bit wider as he turned his head to you.

"The record will show that I resigned, likely because I uttered the words 'I quit', but they were going to transfer me to traffic. Can you imagine how boring that would be?" You rolled your eyes. "So, I exposed my Chief Super's mistress to his wife and walked out."

"Well done." He chuckled. "Look, I know I said you could be the world's only _other_ consulting detective and that we'd start taking money from those that offer, but... it's going to be a while before I am in any shape to chase criminals. I'm sorry."

You smiled. "It's okay. I have some savings and a couple stocks I can sell. I'll be okay." You took his hand. "I'm gonna have to find somewhere else to live, though. My landlady says she doesn't like the publicity that my living there brings to her complex."

"You could always move in at Baker Street."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, your morphine must be up too high. You are aware that moving in together is something serious couples do, right?"

"Are you not serious? I was under the impression we were in a relationship."

"We haven't even been together that long."

"We've been together for months." Sherlock corrected, sitting up a little and looking into your eyes. "I don't want to be away from you any longer. We love each other, what else is important?" You looked at him in awed silence, unable to give him an answer. "You can have John's old room if you don't wanna share."

"Are you joking? You really want to take that step? This is serious."

Sherlock smiled, reaching over to take your hand. "I have met your family. They _hate_ me. You've met my brother. He, somehow, seems to like you. Besides, I need someone to help me once I get out of hospital. John has a job that will occupy most of his time. Mrs. Hudson is rubbish with this sort of thing and my girlfriend let it slip once that she was pre-med at Cambridge."

"Oh, did she? She's an idiot, then." You said, smirking. "She's an idiot who's been dreaming of Baker Street. So, yes, I'll move in."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mrs. Hudson was very helpful in getting you moved in and settled. Hudson seemed to like you. She found out, almost immediately, what your favorite meal was and how you took your tea. "Will you be in the upstairs room? Or, sharing?" She asked the first day.

"Well, I'm not sure. Sherlock said he doesn't mind me taking up some space in _his_ room, but... that's his space, you know? I don't imagine my stuff will go well with his Periodic Table of Elements or his Baritsu scroll. I think it'll probably be better for me to take the upstairs."

"Well, the boys in the shop upstairs might be able to help move your stuff upstairs."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson."

By the time Sherlock made it out of the hospital, you had settled into the upstairs room and you spent the next several weeks nursing Sherlock back to health, between lunches with the Watsons (separately). One afternoon the doorbell rang and you smiled at Sherlock as you stood from the sofa and bounced down the steps to the door. Mycroft stood stiffly on the front step. "Since when do you ring doorbells? We both know you've no issue entering someone's home without an invitation. You might be cold, but you aren't a vampire." You smirked as you let him in.

"Just affording a bit of courtesy to my future sister-in-law. Tell me, how is my dear brother?"

"He's just fine. Been spending most of his time reading. He's still taking narcotics several times a day, but I think that's mostly by choice." You chuckled. "I swapped several of the bottle out with calcium pills. His pain never increased, just his irritability."

"Continue with that and you'll have full withdrawal on your hands."

"I would rather deal with him like _that_ than high." Mycroft smiled as he followed you up the stairs. You entered the flat and Sherlock grimaced as his brother entered behind.

"Why did you let him in?"

"He was coming in whether I invited him or not, Sherlock. This is much easier, isn't it?"

Sherlock grumbled under his breath as he dropped his book into his lap. "What?" He snapped.

"Mother called. She said that you aren't answering her calls or returning her voice messages." Mycroft accused, leaning against his umbrella.

"Sherlock, for shame." You scolded.

"You have ignored your sister's attempt at reconciliation no less than four times _since_ you moved in." He argued.

"That's different. She actually did something wrong. Don't ignore your mummy."

"My childhood counts for nothing, then?"

"In response to your recent brush with death and your joyous re-acquaintance with addiction, Mother has decided that we will start our tradition of Christmas at the holiday cabin again. She'd like to know who all you will be bringing, so that she can make enough food."

"John, Mary, Y/n, and one more who probably won't eat much." Sherlock rattled off quickly.

"I take it this person has a name?"

"Yes."

"And you won't be telling me?"

"Nope."

"Mycroft, would you like some tea?" You offered.

"Don't invite him for-"

"I'm just getting used to being domestic again. Please, have some tea. I already put the kettle on."

Mycroft shot a look at his brother. "I suppose I could have a bit."

"Come to the kitchen, we'll get the mugs ready." You walked into the kitchen, pulling down mugs and grabbing a box of tea bags as Mycroft followed. "It's probably Billy." You whispered.

"Billy?"

"Bill Wiggins. He's an asset of Sherlock's Could've been real clever, but he let the drugs eat his brain. Sherlock has been talking to him a lot. I think he sees Billy as something of himself. Maybe what he might have become if he was working class, with no help to get him clean."

" _Please_. Class has nothing to do with this."

"Rich people always say that." You sassed, leaning against the counter and looking up at him.

"Do you honestly think your upbringing was that much different than Sherlock's and mine?"

"I've never even been in a cabin, your family has one specifically for Christmas holidays. I was the daughter of a soldier. Respect, honor; those were the things I was taught. You, entitled and clever lot that you are, don't respect anything. Not even each other. I had to get a scholarship to pay for uni. You had parents who paid your way. I had to work at an Asda to pay rent and buy food. Have you ever even _been_ in an Asda, Mycroft?" The tall man's nostrils flared, so you just smiled, softly. "Class is important. If I were upper class, I would never have married that idiot back home. I never would have gotten pregnant and she never would have been lost. I never would have become a Detective and I never met Sherlock. I would be a doctor, back home in the states, and I might be perfectly happy. Or I might be miserable. But the person I am today was made by my class."

You handed a mug to Mycroft and walked into the living room. Sherlock shook his head as you put the teacup on the table next to him. You sighed as he pushed the tea away. You sat on the sofa and drank your tea in polite silence. When you'd finished drinking, you walked Mycroft down the stairs and he turned to you at the door. "Well, it appears you will get to observe a Holmes family gathering. I hope we perform to your liking."

"I am glad for the invite, Mycroft, but you do know that I said all that to get to you, right?"

"Of course. I know my brother better than anyone. I know that he is no less a virgin than he was when he returned from the dead."

"Well, a little less." You muttered.

Mycroft fiddled with his cane. "He is afraid to get too involved, lest he be hurt. I'll take the blame for that. I taught him better. And _you_ don't want to be hurt. The dissolution of your last relationship resulted in a suicide attempt and a month-long stay in hospital. It's understandable for you to take it slow."

You opened the door for him. "You're wrong, you know? I didn't try to kill myself because of the divorce. By the time I sent him the papers, I didn't love my ex anymore. I did it because, at 21, I realized that nothing would ever change." You shook your head. "I was in the same lost, lonely place at 21 that I had been at 16. 5 years, a marriage, a child, a move across the ocean... none of it mattered. Nothing had changed. There was no ending where I was happy... and for a very long time, I wasn't. I joined Scotland Yard just to have a distraction from my depression, and an increased chance of being shot. You know, that day I met your brother, it was the first time that I was actually glad the paramedics were able to stop the bleeding. That's why we haven't had sex, Mycroft, because I don't want to push him into something just based on my feelings."

Mycroft looked uncomfortable as he nodded and walked out the door.

"It seemed a bit bonkers to me that Sherlock was able to get such an amazing woman, but you're a bit damaged, too, aren't you, dear?" Mrs. Hudson was at her door, looking at you.

"Isn't everyone, Mrs. Hudson?"

"That's true. Would you like a cuppa, y/n?"

"Actually, I have some left upstairs. Would you care to come up?"

"Oh, any time, Dear."


	5. Happy Christmas

You were sitting on the sofa, reading a book when Sherlock walked over. It had only been another two weeks but he was mostly off of the oxy. Sherlock was moving better. He was still hurt, but mostly better. He sat down next to you and wrapped an arm around you. "Horror books? Honestly? The real world isn't horrific enough for you?"

"Yes, Sherlock. I enjoy Stephen King." You put the book down and turned to him.

"If you enjoy him so much, it might be worth my looking into it."

"Oh, just for my sake?"

"Because you have decidedly good taste. You are  _mine_ , aren't you?" He smiled, kissing your cheek as his long fingers unbuttoned your long-sleeved purple blouse. As he dropped your shirt to the floor, he suddenly noticed, for the first time since he met you, the thin Y-shaped scar with the long tail on your right wrist. He caught your left hand and saw a thick Y with a short tail there. "You started cutting with your non-dominant hand? Why?"

"I knew that my dominant hand was obviously stronger and would be more likely to maintain hold through the pain. I'd be less likely to just give up. It kinda backfired because I was able to cut through more on this hand and went into shock halfway through. If my landlord hadn't been coming to get the rent from me, I would have died, though." You looked away, upset.

Sherlock could tell the mood was ruined, so he doubled down, using his observation skills to analyze you. "Not just the suicide attempt, though."

You pulled your hands back. "Please, don't do this."

"Judging by the lighter, older scars on the back of your arm..." He started and you shook your head. "...you started cutting yourself in your early teens."

"Sherlock. Please."

"Someone must have caught you because you stopped cutting your arms and started hiding it better, with cuts to your breasts and, likely, your thighs." He continued, lightly tracing a scar that was just visible on the edge of your bra. Then his hands went lower, to your stomach just below your belly button, where several thick scars were, lined up on top of the scar from your c-section. "These must be from the stress of losing your daughter."

"And what is the  _point_ of all of this, Sherlock? You knew... you knew I had tried to kill myself. This isn't a shock to you."

"A suicide attempt is not automatically connected to a self-harm addiction, and that's what this is evidence of. No wonder you were so adamant to defend me in front of your family. You're an addict, too."

"I would have defended you regardless, and I haven't cut in years. Not since my stay in hospital. And it was more a coping mechanism than an addiction."

"Don't lie to me. You cut yourself when Magnussen put your life under scrutiny. Deep enough that it still stings." Sherlock put his hand on your thigh and pressed a finger into a cut under your pant leg. You winced and moved away from him.

"Coping. It's a coping mechanism." You insisted.

"No chance of you relapsing again, then?"

"No." You said, adamantly.

"If I were to look in your bedside table, I wouldn't find a mints box that you've had since your teenage years, with brand new blades inside, just in case?"

You sat up and bend down to grab your shirt off the floor. "It's a matchbox." You spat at him.

Sherlock grabbed your hand. "I wasn't trying to start a fight. I was just... being me. Look." He pulled his sleeve up to reveal faint track marks. "Your scars are a lot more noticeable, but I have them just the same. I just wanted you to know that I know and I'm here. You helped me with the morphine and the oxycodone. You helped me get away from the allure of the mindlessness. I'm here if you need it."

You looked down at his arm, then sighed. "I think we need a case, Sherlock."

Sherlock pulled you into his lap. "No. I think we need to give these other chemicals a chance." He put his hand behind your back and moved to unclasp your bra with three fingers. 

You gasped. "Are you sure? I mean..."

"Of course. I'm more than ready." Sherlock kissed your neck and pulled your loose bra down and out of the way before placing kisses along your collarbone.

You pulled away and stood. "It has been a long time for me, forever for you. Let's slow down and do this right." You pulled your bra down your arms and dropped it to the right of sofa, then shimmied out of your jeans and underwear. "This is me. Every scar-covered inch."

Sherlock's eyes wandered over you. Not analytically, but appreciatively. "Beautiful." He whispered, standing to deposit his clothes on top of yours.

"My god, you look like a statue." You said, taking a step back and staring at the marble-esque hue of his skin. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I think my body speaks to that." He said, looking down, playfully. "Why do you keep asking?"

"Well, you didn't stay a virgin this long by accident. I just don't want you to make a rash decision that you will regret."

Sherlock closed the distance and rested his hands on your hips. "I have been thinking about this since our first violin lesson. If I were going to do anything rash, I would have done it then. This is exactly what we should be doing and I won't hear otherwise."

"Okay. I suppose." You said, running your hand through his hair. Sherlock smirked and gripped your thighs and hoisted you up to drop you on the sofa. He immediately got to his knees and positioned himself in front of you. "Wow. You are going right into this, aren't you?"

"I've been researching. I've watched numerous videos and read several articles. The anatomy of certain techniques in the videos didn't make sense, but this... a bit of internal anatomy knowledge and I'm sure you will enjoy." 

You were certain Mrs. Hudson would be gossiping about the noises you were making and you were a bit scandalized at the thought of her telling Mrs. Turner how loud you were, but you had to admit that you couldn't keep your moans quiet if you tried. If you weren't certain that Sherlock Holmes had never been with a woman, you'd have never believed it. His manual dexterity was exactly what you assumed it'd be, his long fingers finding places inside of you that no one had ever found. You screamed his name and the names of several gods and that was only when he was on his knees before you. When he joined you on the sofa, after giving you the statistics on how a properly-executed pull-out maneuver was just as effective (if not more so) as a condom, your screams and moans mixed with his grunts and groans. 

His lips left kisses along your neck and shoulders, one hand holding you in place while the other explored every inch of skin it could reach. The words that fell out of his mouth praising your beauty and body, the way your bodies fit together perfectly, they were almost too quiet to hear, but every one of them made your heart soar just a bit more. But when his words turned to profanities, you knew you had him, that he wasn't going to last much longer.

His orgasm came quicker than he was expecting and he'd barely pulled out before cumming all over your left thigh and hip. He fell to the couch next to you, breathing heavily. "Got some on the couch." You said, breathlessly, reaching back and grabbing his shirt from the floor. You used it to clean yourself up as he calmed his breathing. "Almost messed up that pull-out maneuver, Holmes."

"Sorry. I underestimated the sensory overload that might-"

"Aw, you got overwhelmed by my sexuality."

Sherlock chuckled. "It won't happen again."

"Let's go ahead and try a bed next time, what do you say?" 

"Let's take a break for tea and then we'll try my bed." He said, jumping up and walking into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"Don't you want to put on your trousers? And why  _your_  bed?"

"Mine's closer." He called as you sat up and picked up your purple blouse. "And what is the point of putting my trousers on when you would just have to take them off again?"

You shrugged, pulling the shirt on but not buttoning it. "Suppose you're right. We'll need protein more than tea."

"Tea is imperative, y/n. If you truly think we need protein to maintain, make us peanut butter sandwiches." 

You giggled, moving to do as he suggested. "Sounds good to me."

~~~

"So, Mrs. Hudson said something interesting last time I visited." John said in a light conversational tone, when he showed up to pick you and Sherlock up for Christmas at the Holmes cottage. His eyes were sparkling behind his coffee mug.

You took a drink of your morning juice. "Uh-huh? What was that?"

"She said she's thinking of having Baker Street soundproofed." He said, smiling. "Seems she doesn't get much sleep some nights and she doesn't invite friends over if she knows you and Sherlock will both be in."

"Well, she should go ahead and do that, then." You said, setting your cup in the sink. "Because it's not going to end anytime soon." 

John laughed. "I just can't imagine Sherlock being that loud. This is a man who spends hours sitting in silence and  _you_ , you are such a private person... I can't think of you letting the whole building know you're..."

You chuckled. "You're right. When I was married, my husband and I kept our mattress on the floor so that no one would hear a squeaking bed frame. I  _should_  be more embarrassed that Mrs. Hudson can hear us, but I'm really okay with it and... I know that this is not what you want to hear, since he hasn't been doing it very long and you've been since you were a teen, but he is  _very_  good at sex." You laughed at the look on John's face. "Happy Christmas, John."

John laughed. "Merry Christmas, y/n." He said, as Sherlock walked into the kitchen. You reached up to fix his collar as John smiled. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock." 

"You were discussing our sex life with him, weren't you?" Sherlock asked, eyes darting to John's face, then back to yours.

"He asked. The least I could do was tell him the truth."

"Well, if you could manage to keep yourself quiet, Mrs. Hudson would have nothing to complain about and John wouldn't know anything."

You rolled your eyes. "Yes, of course, it's all  _my_ fault." You shook your head, amused. "You know that if I could keep quiet, I would. Maybe we should just put egg crates up on the walls in the bedroom." 

"Well, that wouldn't help in the living room, kitchen or bath, now, would it?" 

"For someone who objects to John knowing about our sex life, you just gave him a lot more information than I gave him." You looked up at Sherlock as John looked around the kitchen.

"Is there  _any_  surface that's safe to touch?" John asked.

"Hey! I clean. Gotta do something while Sherlock's off at Cambridge every other week. Deep clean, top to bottom. Kinda have to. Hudson won't come up here, anymore." You looked up at Sherlock, who leaned down and kissed your cheek.

"Forwent your coffee for a juice again, huh?" He asked, sniffing at your mouth, slightly.

"Uh-huh."

"You added ginger this morning." 

"Yeah. Ginger is good for digestion." You answered.

"Ah, you'll probably need it, with how much food my mother is likely to force upon us." Sherlock said. "Speaking of, is Bill here, yet?"

"He's down with Hudson. I wouldn't let him up here until you were done getting ready. I've had a headache for two days, I'm not dealing with his weirdness on my lonesome."

"I'll retrieve him. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson is tired of him by now." Sherlock headed toward the door. 

"I've gotta use the loo and then I'll meet you on the street."

"Again? You might want to cut back on the juice. Your urinary output is much higher than normal." Sherlock said, dropping out of view.

"And he was upset at  _you_  for sharing too much." John said, turning to follow Sherlock out of the flat.

You sat in the backseat of John and Mary's Audi, between Mary and Bill. Mary, likely to give a bit of space between her and John, had insisted that Sherlock needed the leg-space of the front passenger seat more than she did, so you were forced to be a buffer between Bill and her and it was a  _long_  road trip. It exhausted you just to be in the back of that car for the hours you had to be there. When you finally made it to the cottage, (a two story, red-walled house with a stone fence with a wrought-iron gate) your body was screaming for movement, but as soon as the door to the cottage opened and Mr. and Mrs. Holmes stepped out, with Mycroft following behind them, you wanted to get back in the car. You were hit with an extreme case of nerves that forced a wave of nausea, neither of which Sherlock seemed to notice.

He walked through the gate, his coat billowing out behind him and headed straight for the cottage. "Father, Mother. John, Mary, y/n, Wiggins. Is there punch?" He said, walking past his family and leaving you to meet his parents with only John, Mary and Bill Wiggins as backup. You smiled as best as you could, offered your hand to each of them and sighed as they turned their attention to the Watsons. You thought you were safe to move past them to go find Sherlock, but Mrs. Holmes came up behind you.

"Ms. Murphy, come help me in the kitchen, dear."

"Okay, then." You followed her into the kitchen, where she handed you a bouquet of broccoli. 

"You know, about ten years ago, I gave up on either of my boys bringing a woman home to meet me." She picked up a bag of potatoes and set them in the sink to start cleaning them. "About 5 years ago, I gave up on Mikey bringing home a man. And when John announced he was engaged to be married, I gave up completely. Yet, here you are; Sherlock's girlfriend." She didn't look at you as she grabbed a vegetable peeler off of the counter. "You know, I've heard a lot about you from Myc. I've  _read_  a lot about you in the papers. How much of what I read is true, dear?"

You started cutting florets off of the broccoli. "I didn't read the lies he cooked up, ma'am, so I wouldn't know which truths he seasoned it with, but if you want to know about me, Mrs. Holmes, I am happy to oblige." 'Happy' was an overstatement, but you supposed it was better to tell her what she wanted to know. "I am American by birth, I earned dual citizenship just after university. I was born in North Carolina, raised mostly in the panhandle of Florida. My father was a soldier, and I was planning the same career until I got pregnant. It forced me to evaluate myself and I decided I wanted to prove to my child and my husband and myself that I was smart enough to become a doctor. I was going to give my daughter a better life than what I had." You said, mistily. 

"I was able to do a late admission, get into Cambridge, but uh, circumstances changed so I changed majors. I was a damn good detective. All of my honors were earned. I  _only_  lied about my nativity and that was only because no one wanted to work with an American ex-pat."

"You deny sleeping with your superiors to get them to go along with it?"

"Vehemently." Your knife sent a floret of broccoli flying across the table.

"And you said you were married? Why did you give up on that?"

"Even a broken woman can tell when her man is lying. His neglect resulted in the disappearance of our daughter." You put the broccoli in a copper bowl and set it on the counter. "I've since learned that it actually resulted in her death, which he hid. I couldn't love him, so I sent him home."

Mrs. Holmes turned to you, setting the peeler on the cutting board. "I am a blunt woman, Ms. Murphy. It's why I like maths. There is no lying in numbers. 1 plus 1 will always equal 2. So, I'm not going to beat around the underbrush. I don't want my son with a promiscuous woman. His interest in that Adler woman was bad enough. So, how many men have you been with?"

You were suddenly struck by the question of: How many men would be enough to label you as promiscuous? "3. I lost my virginity at 16, then I met my husband." You swallowed, before admitting, "I've only had one partner in the last 10 years."

Mrs. Holmes stared into your eyes for a moment, likely looking for signs of a lie, then she smiled. "Well, I approve. And Father approves, but that isn't so difficult. I like honesty and Father likes a pretty face with a brilliant mind. Getting Mikey's approval, that's a bit more difficult." You smiled. You already had Mycroft's approval. The woman wrapped her arms around you and you melted a bit into it. 

"Welcome to the family, then?" Mycroft said, walking into the kitchen.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft." You said, turning to him.

"I hate Christmas." He complained. "Has she finished the interrogation?" As if he hadn't interrogated you ten times over.

Mrs. Holmes tutted in disappointment, but you just sat across from Mycroft and smiled. "Yes. I passed, but it totally doesn't matter. Things are good, Mycroft."

"Are they?"

"Yes. They are." You urged.

"Oh, she's smiling. Why is she smiling?" Sherlock walked in, a newspaper in his hands. 

"Because it's Christmas and your family is awesome."

"You aren't upset to miss your Doctor Who marathon?" Sherlock took a canape off of a plate on the table and sat in a lounge chair to the left of the table. 

"I've seen them all before." It seemed like a million years ago that you told Sherlock about your usual Christmas plans.

"Oh, dear God, it's only two o'clock." Mycroft despaired, looking at the clock on the wall. "It's been Christmas Day for at least a  _week_  now. How can it only be two o'clock? I'm in agony."

"Mikey, is this  _your_  laptop?" Mrs. Holmes gestured to a laptop under the wooden chopping board which carried the potatoes she'd been peeling.

"On which depends the security of the free world? Yes. And you've got potatoes on it." He smiled sarcastically up at her.

"Well, you shouldn't leave it lying around if it's so important." You snickered at the woman's words as she moved to pick up a bowl of Christmas crackers.

"Why are we doing this? We never  _do_  this."

Mrs. Holmes looked a bit exasperated as she leaned toward him. "We are here because Sherlock is home from hospital and we are  _all_  very happy."

"Am  _I_  happy, too? I haven't checked." Mycroft gave another insincere smile. 

"Behave, Myc." Mrs. Holmes picked up the bowl of crackers again.

"' _Mycroft_ ' is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end." Mycroft spat at her.

"Mrs. Holmes. Inspector Murphy." Bill handed a glass of punch to each of you, but you handed it back.

"Sorry, Billy. I'm, uh, not feeling up to punch. Thanks."

Bill looked from the punch glass to Sherlock, who gave an almost-imperceptible nod toward Mycroft. "Maybe some tea for y/n."

"Herbal if you've got it." You responded as Bill placed the punch in front Mycroft.

Mrs. Holmes took a drink of her punch. "Oh! Thank you, dear. Not absolutely sure why you're here."

"I invited him." Sherlock answered. 

"I'm his protégé, Mrs ’olmes. When ’e dies, I get all his stuff, an’ ’is job."

"No." Sherlock said, very precisely.

"Oh, well. I help out a bit."

"Closer." You and Sherlock said, together.

"If 'e  _does_  get murdered or something..." Bill continued.

"Probably stop talking now." 

"Okay."

"Lovely when you bring your friends 'round." Mycroft said.

"Stop it, you. Somebody's put a bullet in my boy..." Mrs. Holmes started, walking around the table. "...and if I ever find out who, I shall turn absolutely monstrous." You shared a look with Sherlock as his mother picked up a mug from the table. "Ah. This was for Mary. I'll be back in a minute."

"No punch?" Sherlock asked, setting the newspaper to the side of the cushion of the chair.

"I've got heartburn."

"Cigarette?"

"God, yes." Mycroft answered for you. He stood and rushed for the foyer.

"Suppose he'll be asking to bum one." Sherlock stood. "Coming?" He asked as Bill handed you a cup of what was obviously chamomile tea.

You took a drink of the tea and shook your head. "No. You and  _Mikey_  can enjoy that on your own."

"Please, call him that to his face." Sherlock gave you a chaste kiss before following Mycroft into the foyer to put on his coat and head outside.

As you sipped at the tea, you wondered if it had gone bad. There was an off after-taste; not quite sour, more bitter. You grabbed the container of salt and put a pinch in your tea, to the confusion of Bill and Mrs. Holmes. "It had a bitter tinge." You explained, stirring the tea.

"Ah!" Mrs. Holmes gave her understanding, but Bill just clung to his confusion. "Where are Sherlock and Myc?"

"Front garden, soothing their nicotine addiction." You said, taking a sip of your tea. It was better, but still bitter. Mrs. Holmes huffed as she stomped toward the door. You grimaced at Bill. "Think I just got your boss in trouble."

"Are you two smoking?" Mrs. Holmes' cross voice carried from the entranceway to the kitchen, easily, but the responses didn't, so you took a good drink of your tea and moved to stand in the entrance.

"I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline." Mycroft's voice sounded like it was right outside the door.

"I decline your kind offer." Sherlock was further away.

"I shall pass on your regrets."

"What was it?"

"MI-6. They want to place you back into Eastern Europe." Your throat clenched a bit at the thought. Eastern Europe was where he'd gone to dismantle the extent of Moriarty's empire. He'd almost died while John  and the rest of the world thought he already was. "An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to you in, I think, about six months."

"Then why don't you want me to take it?"

"It's tempting... but on balance you have more utility closer to home."

" _Utility!_  How do  _I_  have utility?"

"'Here be dragons'." Mycroft said, before coughing. "This isn't agreeing with me. I'm going in."

You moved back toward the kitchen as Sherlock's faint voice called out. "You need  _low_  tar. You still smoke like a beginner."

You were sat at the table by the time Mycroft got back to the table, sipping politely at your tea. "You know, when I was a smoker, it was Camel no. 9s or Marlboro Reds. You might want to try Marlboro Silvers. My friends smoked those back in high school, didn't have much trouble with them."

"Eavesdropping?"

"Of course not. You just look a bit green, Mycroft." You couldn't bring yourself to call him 'Mikey' to his face. He gave you the same insincere smile he'd given his mother before taking a large swig of his punch.

Mrs. Holmes went down first, slumping in the armchair at the end of the table, then Mycroft swayed in his seat before falling forward, head hitting the table next to his laptop with a 'thunk'. You tried to stand, but your legs felt like they were filled with lead. You tried to fight it as your head started swimming toward the oblivion the Holmeses were already in. "Don't drink Mary's tea." Sherlock's voice coming from the sitting room seemed even further away and echoed in your ears with your heartbeat. "Or the punch."

"Did you just  _drug_  my pregnant wife?"

Sherlock moved around the kitchen, or at least you thought it was Sherlock, as it was just a tall blob of a dark suit. "Don't worry. Wiggins is an excellent chemist." He came to a stop in front of you, leaning down to examine you. You could make out a disappointed expression. "Usually. Seems you went light on y/n's dose."

"Well, we was expectin' 'er to drink the punch, wasn't we? I 'ad to calculate 'er tea on the fly. Fought I'd go light since she's small 'n all. Not my fault she's fightin' it."

"Just let the darkness take you, y/n. Stop fighting." Sherlock whispered, before standing up. "We don't have time for this."

"Sherrrlah." You slurred. "Wha- yoooo dooo?"

"I'm sorry. Bill, syringe. No more than a cc. She's almost out." As the blob that was Bill Wiggins rushed out of the kitchen, your right jumper sleeve was rolled up. "John, hand me that ribbon from the door."

"Christ, Sherlock! How old is  _that_?" John's voice was strained as he handed something green to Sherlock.

"More than a decade. The other wrist is worse." The green ribbon was being tied into a tourniquet around your upper arm. "She was very dedicated to the idea of suicide. One wonders how she managed to cock it up."

"Her daughter?" John's voice was small.

"Among other things. She can tell you about it when we're done. Though, I suppose it's not the best conversation for Christmas Day."

"'ere you go." Wiggins was back.

"I love you, y/n."

"Sher, don't." Your words were almost clear.

"Have to." He muttered as a small pinching pain touched the inside of your elbow. It burned going in, but it worked quickly, sending you into oblivion before you even felt the tourniquet come off your arm.

When you came back around, a wave of nausea forced you to your feet. You stumbled, still under the influence of the drugs. Billy was next to you with a small rubbish bin, which you retched stomach acid and tea into, before you could speak. "It's aw-right." He went to pat your back, but you glared at him, pulling the bin into your lap.

"Never touch me, Wiggins. Ever."

"What happened?" Mycroft asked, groaning.

"The druggie drugged us." You accused.

"Just' did wut I's told."

"Where is my laptop?" Mycroft asked, panic in his voice.

You groaned, retching again. "Think it through. John and Sherlock are gone, with your laptop, upon which the security of the free world. Where do you suppose they've gone?"

"Magnussen."

"You!" You spat at Bill as Mycroft fumbled to get his mobile phone out of his pocket. "Where is Mary?"

"Sittin' room. She's fine."

You stood, the nausea and lead feeling in your limbs receding enough to make it possible for you to move. "Forgive me if I don't take a crackhead's word for it." 

You were sick, you were exhausted, you were worried about Sherlock going against Charles Magnussen again, and, more than anything, you were pissed off. You rubbed at your arm as you walked purposefully toward the sitting room. Someone had put a cotton ball over the injection site, held on with cellotape. You pulled your sleeve up just enough to pull the bandage off, then pulled it down as you entered the sitting room.

"He drugged us, didn't he?" Mary asked. You nodded. "Bastard."

"You all right?"

"Yeah. You?"

"I don't think I've ever been as angry with Sherlock as I am right now. I didn't go down as fast as the rest of you, so he put a bloody needle in my arm! All so he could steal Mycroft's laptop."

"W-why?"

"Magnussen. I think he's trying to trade all of Mycroft's national security info for your safety."

" _Our_ safety."

"There's nothing more he can do to me, Mary. All he's got are my medical records and I'm not a cop anymore so it doesn't matter that I tried to kill myself." Mary's face fell in shock. "It doesn't matter, Mary. This isn't about me, it's about you. He's trying to fulfill his promise to keep the three of you safe."

"He's going to get himself and John killed."

"Arrested for treason, so, yeah..." You swallowed. "... killed."

Mycroft stomped angrily into the sitting room. "Did either of you know anything about this?"

You rolled your eyes. "Of course not! We wouldn't have been drugged if we knew what was going on, would we?"

"Tell me you have a locator on that laptop." Mary begged. 

"Of course I do. Unfortunately, we were out long enough for it to get where it's going. Stopped motion at Appledore."

"Great. Helicopter on its way?" You asked. 

"Of course. MI-5 scrambling to the location. You are not invited." Mycroft answered the question before you asked it.

"Great. I'll just sit here and wait."

"I'm certain Mother will still feed you." Mycroft said, as his phone went off in his hand.

"I'm not hungry."

"You should eat. An empty stomach's no good." Mary said, following Mycroft out of the sitting room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was almost morning when Mycroft returned to the cottage. You'd tried to sleep, but couldn't, so it was just you waiting up in the sitting room with the dying embers of the fire. He looked distraught, tired, almost worse than when he awoke from being drugged. You didn't ask where Sherlock was, waiting for Mycroft to tell you. "Sherlock... Sherlock has been arrested."

"Arrested? For... for what?" 'High Treason' seemed the thing he'd say, but your mouth dropped open when he replied with, "Murder."

"What?!"

"He shot Charles Magnussen."

You shook your head. "No."

"I saw it with my own eyes, y/n. He murdered the man in cold blood."

You stood, looking up at the older Holmes. "Take me to him."

"He is in a secure government facility. You don't have the clearance."

"Then,  _get_  me the clearance." You demanded. "You've done extensive background checks on me. You do psychological profiling every time we  _speak_. You know that I am not a threat. You take what files you have and send them to whoever you have to. You get me into that room with him, Mycroft, or so help me, I will rain down every form of torture I can think of."

"You do recognize the irony of threatening me while protesting that you're nonthreatening?" 

"Yes, I do. Got a bit passionate there. Sorry. Haven't slept."

"You must truly... love him."

"Unfortunately, I do, Mycroft. I need to see him."

Mycroft sighed softly and pulled out his phone. "I'm going to send you some files, Basil. I need you to give her level six clearance to the Oubliette; only the Oubliette. I don't even want her to have lobby clearance for any other location." There was a pause. "She isn't a danger, she's family. I just don't want her getting into things. She's too much like my brother." He smiled at you. "Send a car to the cottage."

~~~~~~~~~~~

The ride back to the city was a lot more comfortable than the ride away from it, sitting in the backseat of Mycroft's motor pool Jaguar. You were nervous, and once again pissed off. How in the world could Sherlock have just murdered someone in cold blood like that? You tried to hold conversation with Mycroft but as you got further from the cottage, you just fell into a tense silence. After almost two hours, Mycroft handed you a blindfold, which you placed over your eyes without protest. He tightened it down and led you into a building. He took the blindfold off and you could see that you were in an antiseptic-looking corridor with white walls and stainless steel doors. "I have to inspect you. It  _is_  a detention facility."

"Frisk away." You outstretched your arms and he hung his umbrella on his own arm as he started patting his way across your body. He spent a bit more time than necessary on it and you weren't sure if it was a sign of his discomfort at doing it. "You know, if I weren't so completely sure that you're gay, I'd think you were copping a feel, Mycroft." You joked, which prompted him to back away.

"Don't  _give_ him anything." 

"Wouldn't dream of it." You followed Mycroft to one of the steel doors, this one with a little window on it. Mycroft opened it and you walked in. Sherlock was sitting at a steel table.

"You have ten minutes."

"I dare you to take me out of here before I'm done talking." You glared at Mycroft, slightly, as he closed the door. Sherlock smiled at you, but you couldn't manage to smile back. "Sherlock, what did you do?"

"I killed Magnussen. Appledore was his Mind Palace. No physical evidence to be found. Everyone is safe." He said it conversationally.

"How can you say it like that? You killed a human being."

"I killed a monster, and you've done the same." He said, matter-of-factly.

"In the line of duty, when it was life or death." You defended.

"I am not talking about Scotland Yard, Inspector. And we both know it." He leaned forward and caught your eyes as he finished. "I'm talking about Mike."

Your heart pounded in your chest as Sherlock's eyes dared you to lie to him. "You didn't think I'd check on him? You know, it was very convincing, that bit about his torturous life being better vengeance than his death..." He sat back. "But it fell apart when you got out of my bed and left the hotel room on the night before we left. I watched you tap away on your laptop outside of his apartment for almost an hour before you drove back to the hotel. You stopped at the beach, so I had opportunity to go back to the room and pretend I'd been asleep the whole time."

He smiled. "I searched your laptop on the plane. While you were reading and I was pretending to watch a movie. It must've taken quite a bit of research to figure out how to hack into an insulin pump. That's premeditation."

"That was different." You whispered.

"Why? Because he caused the death of your daughter? Think of all the death Magnussen cause. All the suicides and murders carried out because of his mishandling of information and flat lies."

"No, because I didn't do it in full view of MI5!" You exclaimed. "And because I was clever about it. You just shot the man in the face."

"I agree that it wasn't very elegant, but it was effective. Anyway, you don't need to worry, y/n. Mycroft is going to set me up with a mission to Eastern Europe. He knows keeping me imprisoned isn't going to help anyone. I'll be exiled for a while, but it isn't execution, so that is a plus."

"The mission to Europe that will see you dead in 6 months?"

"Someone was eavesdropping."

"I prefer the term 'investigating'. Execution in 6 months is still execution, Sherlock."

"Don't tell John that this might kill me. I'll make it back. This gives me ample time to come up with a way out of all this. Remember who you're talking to."

"How could I forget?"

"Mycroft is at the door. I think-"

"I think I have to go. He had to pull strings to get me in here, at all."

"Steal a pen on your way out. It'll get under his skin." You stood and he looked up at you, sighing. "I never did get a chance to give you your present. It's in a box under the skull on the mantle. Before you make assumptions, it's a completely different one."

You leaned over the table and kissed him, trying to savor what may end up being your last kiss, but Mycroft opened the door, so you were forced to pull away. Once you were out in the corridor, you turned to Mycroft. "When you send him off to wherever, Mycroft, you better let me see him."

"Of course." He said, handing you the blindfold again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You weren't really in the mood for presents by the time you made it back to Baker Street, but you picked up the skull on the mantle and stared at a wooden ring box for a minute before picking it up. There was a small note attached to the top of it, which you unfolded.  _ **'Merry Christmas. First of many, I hope. Maybe your last as a Murphy?'**_

Your heart was in your throat as you opened the ring box to find a two-tone platinum and rose-gold ring with a single diamond in the middle. "My god." You breathed out, tears starting to fall down your cheeks. You were sobbing in Sherlock's armchair when Mrs. Hudson came to investigate the noise.

"What's wrong, dear?" You shoved the ring box in her face and she quickly read the note. "Oh, he proposed? Never thought I'd see the day."

"But he's being sent away! What if he doesn't make it back? What if he falls out of love while he's over there? What if he comes back and everything's different?"

"Well, dear, those are all valid concerns, but let me remind you... Sherlock doesn't pick people often. He's got the people he cares about on one hand. That won't change just because he's exiled for a couple years. He was  _dead_  for two years and came right back to the same people. And you... well, it's not like you're movin' on. Took ya 10 years to find him, you aren't givin' up now, are you? As for not coming back? He's Sherlock, of course he'll be back."

The woman's words were comforting, but it was when she opened the box and put the ring on your left hand that everything truly felt like it was going to be all right. She patted your hand and walked toward the kitchen. "Let me make you a cuppa."

"There's a new box of Ginger Green, if you could..."

"Of course, dear."


	6. Welcome Home

"I told you that you would end up my sister in-law, didn't I?" Mycroft said as you sat in the 'Stranger's Room' at Diogenes, a tea cup and saucer on your knee. 

"Yes, you did. No one but you could've predicted it."

"Not true." He said with a shake of his head. "Our father did, actually."

"What? Really?"

"The day after your first date with Sherlock, I received a call about those pictures." He took a sip of his brandy and gestured at you with the glass. "You remember; the one of you with the violin? Father saw that one and knew that you would say 'yes' if ever my brother asked. Said he could see the love in your eyes." He rolled his eyes like he recognized the absurdity of the statement.

"When he saw that other picture of you standing intimately with your hand on his chest, Father said that Sherlock would make you his bride."

You chuckled as a man with booties over his shoes walked in to freshen your tea. Just as he had every other time you'd been to Diogenes, the man looked upset at your presence. "You think they'll ever be okay with me being here?"

"Traditionally, women are not allowed in the Diogenes Club."

"As you've said. That's why I had to sneak in the first time."

"You climbing through the window was, I think, the most exciting thing to happen at Diogenes in years." Mycroft uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "You never told Sherlock that you and I have these little meetings, did you?"

"If he knew that you liked me, Mycroft, he'd be bound and determined to  _stop_ liking me. It's bad enough that your mum and dad couldn't find a problem with me."

"Sherlock is ever the contrarian." 

"That, he is." You took a drink of your tea and bit your lip. "How bad is this... this MI-6 mission that I'm not supposed to know about?"

"No worse than the prisons we could have sent him to... without the discord he would have sowed in detention."

"Do you really think it'll kill him? Going UC in Eastern Europe?"

"Someone better than I at predicting these sorts of things thinks it will." He sighed, softly. "We do hope that she's wrong."

"When? When are you sending him away?"

" _I'm_  not sending him away, he's  _being_  sent. You must remember that he committed a murder-"

"You don't have a problem with that so much as you have a problem with him being so brazen about it." You said, knowingly.

"I  _do_  have a problem with him killing people."

"Not 'people', Mycroft. Magnussen. Just Magnussen... and he did it to protect the people he cares about."

"Not  _you_ , of course. Couldn't be bothered to stem the destruction of your life's work."

"Trying to get me upset at him so that I'm not so worried about him dying? Transparent."

"No. Just pointing out a truth." 

"When?" You urged.

"Five more days. I've managed to convince Lady Smallwood to send him, but we wanted to ensure he spends a bit of time locked down before we send him off."

"Okay."

"A car will pick you up at Baker Street Tuesday at 0800."

You smiled and stood. "If you come early, I'll make you breakfast."

"Why would I-"

"I do a mean fry up."

He sighed, tiredly. "0700, then."

"See you then." You waved at him as you walked out of the Stranger's Room. 

~~~~~~

You rode in the back of the large black Jaguar on the way to the airfield. Mycroft sat next to you, stealing looks at you when he thought you weren't paying attention. He wasn't as bad as people thought he was. He had to be cold, it was a consequence of his work and possibly a result of his childhood,  but he was a good man and a good brother.

You stood on the tarmac, waiting for Sherlock to get done with John. "To the very best of times, John." He moved away from his best friends and embraced you, tightly. You pulled back and held a pen in front of his face with your left hand, showcasing both the stolen stylo and the diamond on your ring finger. Sherlock smiled. "You took a pen. Brilliant."

You put it in his inside pocket with his magnifying glass. "Something to remember me by."

"Oh, I will have absolutely no problem remembering you, Miss Murphy."

"Well, I'm pretty well determined to become Mrs. Holmes, so you better come back." Your smile turned serious as you leaned forward. "Sherlock, you  _have_  to come back. Because-" You leaned right next to his ear and whispered, almost inaudibly.

Sherlock leaned away from you, his eyes wide. "Really?" He was breathless with surprise. You just nodded. "Of course I will be back."

"How far along do you think she is?" John asked his wife.

"A week late, maybe two. She probably took the test right before Christmas and was planning to tell him after they got home from the cottage... which he ruined by drugging us all and getting arrested."

"About the time she stopped drinking coffee and started adding ginger to her juice. We'll have to be his proxy, you know? Be there for her since he won't be able to."

"I have absolutely no problem with that. I'm an expert in Lamaze by now." Mary said, pulling out her phone as you and Sherlock embraced again.

Sherlock didn't kiss you, an absent look in his eyes as he moved to board the plane. "Congratulations, y/n. This is huge!" Mary said, patting your back as the plane pulled away.

"Eavesdroppers." You teased as John wrapped you in a hug.

"I thought you might be pregnant on Christmas. You were dropping hints for Sherlock, but he was too busy thinking about Magnussen, wasn't he?"

"Headache, heartburn, nausea... he noticed my urinary output but he missed all other signs." You chuckled, but stopped as the jet began to taxi down the runway. 

"He'll be back. Don't worry, y/n."

You wished you knew that was true, but how could it be? "That is simply not possible." Mycroft said into his mobile, getting out of the back of his car.

"What's happened?" John asked, stepping away from you and toward the elder Holmes brother.

"It's Moriarty." Mycroft answered.

"Moriarty? As in... 'shot himself in the head to make sure Sherlock couldn't get him to call off the hitmen' Moriarty?" Your voice wavered at the thought. The people closest to Sherlock were in constant danger when he was alive.

"I think he preferred 'Jim'. He's on the telly.  _Every_  telly in the country." Mycroft responded as he dialed the number for the phone on the jet, sitting back down in the backseat of the Jaguar. "Hello, little brother. How's the exile going?"

There was a short silence filled by the awkward looks you shared with the Watsons. "Well, I certainly hope you've learnt your lesson. As it turns out, you're needed." Mycroft sighed, deeply. "England."

"But he's dead." Mary said, looking pointedly at John. "I mean, you told me he was dead. Moriarty."

"Absolutely. He blew his own brains out."

"So, how can he be back?" Mary asked.

"He can't." You responded, vehemently. "No way." 

"Well, if he is, he better wrap up warm. There's an East Wind coming." John nodded toward the jet as it was landing.

The four of you rushed onto the plane. "Well, a somewhat shorter exile than we'd imagined, Brother Mine, hardly adequate given your levels of OCD."

"I have to go back!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"What?" Mycroft hunched over slightly to keep his head off of the ceiling of the jet.

"I was... I was nearly there! I nearly had it!" 

"What on earth are you talking about?" Mycroft asked.

"Go back where? You didn't get very far." John shook his head at the man.

"Ricoletti and his abominable wife! Don't you understand?"

"No, of course we don't. You're not making any sense, Sherlock." Mary leaned around Mycroft to look at Sherlock. You chose to analyze your fiancé's voice, instead of his face.

"It was a case, a famous one from a hundred years ago, lodged in my hard drive. She seemed to be dead but then she came back." Sherlock tetchily explained.

"Like Moriarty?" You asked, closing your eyes to focus in on his tone.

"Shot herself in the head,  _exactly_  like Moriarty."

"But you've only just been told. We've only just found out. He's on every TV screen in the country." Mary moved to sit in the seat in front of Sherlock.

"Yes? So?" Sherlock unclicked his safety belt. "It's been five minutes since Mycroft called. What progress have you made? What have you been doing?"

"More to the point, what have  _you_  been doing?" John chuckled.

"I've been in my Mind Palace, of course."

"Of course." John agreed.

"Running an experiment: how would I have solved the crime if I'd been there in 1895?"

_*He's speaking too fast. 'Running an experiment'... a mental exper-*_ "Oh, Sherlock." You and Mycroft said, simultaneously disappointed. Mycroft sunk into the seat across the aisle from Sherlock and you leaned against the side of it."

"I had all the details perfect. I was there, all of it. Everything! I was immersed."

"Of  _course_  you were." Mycroft looked off at nothing.

"You've been reading John's blog: the story of how you met." Mary gave a small smile as she looked at Sherlock's phone.

"Helps me if I see myself through his eyes sometimes. I'm so much cleverer."

"You really think anyone's believing you?" Mycroft snapped.

"No, he can do this. I've seen it. The Mind Palace, it's like a whole world in his head." John defended. Good friend, always expecting the best of Sherlock.

"Yes, and I need to get back there." Sherlock was frustrated, putting his hands up.

"The Mind Palace is a  _memory_  technique. I know what it can do; and I know what it most certainly cannot." Mycroft growled.

 

 

"Maybe there are one or two things that I know that you don't." Sherlock looked across the jet at his brother.

"Oh, there  _are_. Did you make a list?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock looked away and bit his thumbnail before turning back to Mycroft again. "You've put on weight. That waistcoat's clearly newer than the jacket-"

"Sherlock!" You hissed.

"Stop this. Just  _stop_  it!  _Did you make a list?_ " Mycroft insisted.

"Of what?" Sherlock decided to play dumb.

"Everything, Sherlock. Everything you've taken." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked away as you bit into your lip. John came to his defense again. "No, it's not that. He goes into a sort of trance. I've seen him do it." 

"This isn't that." You whispered as your detective pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket with the stolen pen and threw it on the floor.

Mycroft looked up at John whose eyebrows furrowed a bit before he bent over and picked up the paper. Both of the Holmes avoided eye contact as John unfolded the paper and looked down at it in shock. "We have an agreement, my brother and I, ever since that day." Mycroft started. "Wherever I find him, whatever back alley or doss house... there will always be a list."

John sat in the chair across from Mycroft.  "He couldn't have taken all of that in the last five minutes." He looked over at Sherlock.

"This is how you react to finding out you're going to be a father?" Mary asked.

"Don't be ridiculous. He was high before he got on the place." Mycroft clarified.

"Yes, I'm sure he is very happy to be a father."

"Don't speak for me, John. You can't presume to know my mind." Sherlock growled, irritably. "I was going to run a risk/reward on the plane and write a letter to you from my destination based upon those findings."

Your jawline tightened as you read between the lines of his words. "You coward." You whispered.

"What?" Mary leaned over and grabbed your hand.

Angry tears pricked at the edges of your eyes. "He was going to ask me to get a termination. He ran a risk analysis in his head before he walked onto the jet. He wanted me to kill it and didn't even have the balls to say it to my face."

Sherlock looked at his boots, head swimming, begging to return to the place the drugs were calling him to. "I am a man with many enemies. Not just men I've angered; I am a man with nemeses. I know you can take care of yourself, as I know John and Mary can. I know they can take care of their child, but I also know that any child of  _mine_ would be a weak spot worth exploiting." His half-glazed blue eyes met yours. "I thought you were pro-choice."

"And I thought you were a  _human being_  who might understand what a child would mean to me!" The tears started to drop but you had to ignore them or there would be a hell of a lot more of them. "Asking a woman who already lost one child to kill her next? I can't believe you would be so fucking heartless."

You pulled the ring off of your finger and shook your head in disbelief at his callousness. "You won't have to worry about this child being used against you, Sherlock. You won't have to worry about either of us. Enjoy your fucking detox. Mycroft and John can take care of you this time." You tossed the ring in the seat next to him and stomped off of the jet.

Mary rushed after you. "Wait! Dear, where are you-"

"Home! I'm going home."

"Florida?" Mary asked, leaning against the open back door of Mycroft's government car. "Isn't that a bit far? He's an insensitive arse, but you fell for that arse. You're gonna run off to the US because you had a fight?"

"That wasn't a fight! This isn't some lover's tiff, Mary!" You wiped at your cheeks and sighed. "He's in there and he's high and he doesn't want this baby. This thing that I was so nervous and excited to share with him, he doesn't want it and it is a part of me. I don't have a career here, anymore, or a fiancé. You and Greg and John are good people, amazing people and great friends, but you'll always be Sherlock's people first, so I need to go back to the one place where I have people who are mine.  _Just_  mine."

Mary took a step back, releasing the door. "I won't say that he didn't mean it. We know him too well for that lie to pass, but he  _is_  wrong and one day, he'll see that. He'll regret this."

"I'm sure you're right. Unfortunately, 'one day' isn't soon enough." You waved at the driver, who turned over the engine, and reached for the door. "Go help John. He's bound to be freaking out."

"I'll call, yeah?"

"You better... and pictures of that baby when you have it." Marry nodded as you shut the door and the car drove away.

~~~~~~~~~~

You hopped on the first flight home, a red-eye with American Airlines. You filled a carry-on with your essential and left a note saying she'd send movers for the rest. After a tearful goodbye with Mrs. Hudson, who insisted that Sherlock Holmes would come to his senses because "he loves you, dear. He can't go back to the man he was before you. Never happen." you were on your way back to Florida. You mother was surprised, to say the least, when you showed up at the house at 4 in the morning. She invited you in, sat you on the couch with a cup of coffee, which you sipped at, and asked for the story.

"I don't even know where to start, mum. Uh... I told you that Sherlock got shot, right, and that I had to help get him off the opioid painkillers they put him on at hospital?" You mother nodded. "Well, that's shot to shit. He relapsed. Big time. Hard stuff. Way worse than... He got exiled from England 'cause someone ended up dead on one of his cases..." You weren't lying really. Just not explaining. "...and he was being sent off on a secret mission that was probably gonna end with  _him_ dead so he got high. Makes an addicts amount of sense, I guess, but..."

"You're here because he relapsed?"

"I'm here because I'm pregnant." You answered, shortly.

Your mother's eyes lit up, like you'd hoped Sherlock's would when he found out about the baby. "Really?"

"Really. But he leads a dangerous life. He's got real enemies. He wanted me to get an abortion so that the baby couldn't be used against him."

"What a complete asshole." Your mom exclaimed.

You chuckled. "I thought the same thing. That's why I jumped on a plane. Relatively safe here. No junkie sociopath or his nemeses to contend with. So... can I stay?"

"Of course you can!" She exclaimed. "Your old room is still made up. Haven't moved a thing."

She helped you up from the couch and hugged you as she walked you to your room. Your mother might not be the most clever woman in the world, and she might have been judgmental and terrible sometimes, but you could always count on her to help you when you needed it. She does her best to be good to you and she's definitely  _your_  person.

So was your oldest sister. She showed up to take you to lunch the next day. She waited until you were ready to talk, filling the little round diner table with conversation about the things that have changed in your home town since you moved to England. "Oh, and did you hear about Mike?"

You shook your head. "What'd he do this time?"

"He died." You feigned shock. "Yeah! They found him a couple days after your last visit. His insulin pump went Skynet and filled him up with three  _days_  worth of insulin. Hypoglycemic shock put him in a seizure that he never woke up from."

"No one ever called me." 

"We didn't think you'd want to be bothered about it. I mean, you are the ex-wife and he was an asshole."

"Yeah, but now he's dead." You shook your head, in fake exasperation. "I mean... we were together for years."

"Yeah, like  _three_. He got you pregnant before you'd even known him a year!"

"Not true." You argued. "I  _knew_  him for years before I talked to him. I do have a habit of diving in headfirst, don't I?"

Jessica leaned forward, slightly, recognizing this as a gateway to talk about your current drama. "Sherlock?"

You nodded. "I guess I have a bit of a type; assholes. Smart, manipulative, skinny, don't know how to take care of themselves assholes, but you know, at least when Mike got me pregnant, he didn't ask me to get an abortion."

"He didn't!"

"Yeah. Some mess about his enemies using the baby against him. Between that and the fact that he's using again, I decided to come home."

"Wow. Must've hit you hard. I mean, you didn't even move back home after your divorce." She carefully avoided saying 'After Arianna disappeared.'

"Well, I couldn't come back after the divorce. Mike was here... and my uni was there and then my job... but... uni's over and Sherlock's drama made me lose my job, so here I am. Where Sherlock is not."

"And Mike is not."

"Well, I didn't know that when I ran away from London." You grimaced. "Ugh, 'ran away' sounds so-"

"Aw, don't worry about it. At least you're home and safe."

"Yeah."

"So... what, uh.... what is the plan?" That's what Jess is good at, the 'where do I go from here?'.

"I don't know. Two days ago, I was planning to take over Sherlock's Consulting Detective empire while he was in Eastern Europe, raise this baby with the Watsons, but now... no plan."

"Well, you're a cop, right? Why can't you be a cop here?"

"I mean, I can eventually, I guess. I'd have to..." You scoffed. "...go back to school. Which is infuriating."

"You didn't think you were  _done_  with higher education, did you?" She smiled. "Okay, so go back to school, get your degree of United States Cop-itude, have the baby, go be a cop?"

"Sounds good to me."

"You know, if you need anything, I'm here."

"I know."

"So... while you're going to school, what are you gonna do for work?"

"I'll probably try to stick with law enforcement, at least tangentially. It's what I know best."

"We can hit up the county job search when we get you back to the house."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You sat in the office of the Human Resources director of the police department in your hometown a few weeks later. Your sister was right about getting a job. You couldn't live off of your savings, eating your parents' food forever. You knew you couldn't possibly be an active member of the police force, not for at least a year, but you were looking forward to being part of the solution again, even if it was just as an evidence clerk, which you were interviewing for.

"Miss Murphy, help me to understand something. You were with London's Metropolitan Police Service for 9 years. You were a Detective for 4 years. You're highly decorated. Why did you walk away from Scotland Yard?" The man on the opposite side of the desk asked.

You took a deep breath. "Honestly, sir, a few months ago I was dating this man who angered a newspaper magnate. This businessman thought he could convince me to convince my boyfriend to back off if my career was in jeopardy, but I stood my ground, so he published some half-truths and whole lies about me. He insinuated that I had slept my way to all of those commendations in my jacket and in order to prevent an unfair demotion, I resigned my position at Scotland Yard."

"I understand how the media can be. Our county sheriff almost lost his position because some exposé made it seem like he had a gambling addiction since he had a bachelor's party in Vegas." He cleared his throat. "Of course, we will have to look into those allegations before we employ you in any position."

You pulled a newspaper from your briefcase and placed it on the desk. "My mum had a copy. She wanted it framed for posterity. You know, show my future children everything I've fought back from, or some such. You'll see that the only evidence they actually had was the birth certificate, which proved that I wasn't Irish as I'd been claiming."

"Why were you pretending to be Irish?" He asked, picking up the newspaper.

"No one wanted to work with an American. You'd think we would get better treatment over there since our governments are so close, but alas, no. A lot of people over there have a very closed-minded view of immigration. One of the other Detective Inspectors came up with the idea and I just so happen to be awesome with accents."

"So, you lied because you wanted to be a cop." He gave a little noise of confusion. "So, why are you putting in for the evidence position? Why aren't you trying to become a detective here?"

You couldn't let him know about the baby, because that might lose you your opportunity. Especially in a small Southern town, people were prone to think a mother shouldn't work... and a single, unwed mother was bound to be given hell about it. "Well, different countries, different laws. We don't even mirandize in the UK. I need to get a handle on the way law enforcement is done on the home front. I figure the best place to do that is right here."

"All right, well... I think, with your records and resume, you'll be a good fit here. We'll do the background check and call you in for a drug test if that goes through. It was great meeting you, Miss Murphy."

You stood, thanking him for his time and shaking his hand. You walked out to your mother's old Saturn sedan and your phone went off as you sat in the driver's seat. You sighed as you pulled it out of your purse and sat back as you answered it. "Hello, Mycroft. You're about a week later calling than I expected." You sighed before continuing. "I'm not coming back."

"Of course you aren't. I would never ask that of you, Sister Mine. Especially since you're going to work for the police again. Freeport PD is quite a bit different than Scotland Yard. Didn't think anything could be a step down from that. Did you?"

Being called 'Sister' tugged at your heart. "Mycroft... I gave the ring back. I'm not gonna  _be_  your sister."

"Oh, but you will be the mother of my niece or nephew, and Sherlock may come to his senses once his sobriety is cemented."

"The drugs didn't make him say those things, Myc." You said, sadly.

"No." He responded, certainly. "But they may have made him doubt your abilities to care for yourself and this child."

"I... I wish that were true, but Sherlock is a sociopath. He doesn't..." You shook your head. "It doesn't matter. He doesn't want this baby and it's the most important thing in my life right now."

"I, of course, understand, y/n. But we do wish you hadn't left so quickly."

Another pang of pain hit your heart. "Mycroft. I'm sorry that I didn't say 'goodbye'. I didn't say goodbye to Greg, either... but I couldn't stay there. There was nothing left for me."

"Of  _course_  not. Sherlock lost you your job, your home. He doesn't want to keep the family you've created. Why would you stay?" His voice held animosity.

"Mycroft... I know I left you, too. You were, actually, doing pretty well at the brother thing, but... I couldn't stay."

"Have you heard from Mother? She insisted I give her your number." He deflected.

"No, but I'll keep an eye out for her call."

"Are you really going back to being a police officer? With your  _condition_?" He sounded almost concerned.

"Not yet. I put in for a clerk position. Once I get the job, I'll let them know I'm pregnant and then, hopefully, after I have the baby I can become a detective here. I've got the training, just need to bone up on my US Constitution."

"Of course, if you  _were_  to come back to London, I might be able to get your position with Scotland Yard reinstated." That's how he doesn't ask you to come back. "Gregory Lestrade has been working to clear your name. It, fortunately, seem that it won't take 2 years as it did with my brother."

"You miss me that much already, Mycroft?"

"Have you ever known me to bow to sentimentality?"

"Never, but you aren't taken to calling people by titles they have yet to earn, either, so I thought maybe I was special."

"Make no mistake,  _Sister Mine_. You are invariably special, as is the grape-sized parasite in your womb." You smiled. 'Grape-sized parasite' was endearing from Mycroft. "When Sherlock comes to beg forgiveness, do make it harder than John did when Sherlock arose from the grave."

"That assumes I'm prepared to forgive him."

"Of course you will. You're in love." He said, mockingly. "Fortunately, you're being more level-headed than you were with the last one."

You sighed. Mycroft knew what happened to your ex-husband. He'd heard what Sherlock said to you and had discussed it with you at Diogenes and at Baker Street the morning he came to pick you up to see off Sherlock. He might have thought it was a travesty that his brother had killed Magnussen in cold blood, but he hadn't cared about what you'd done to Mike. Maybe because Mike wasn't a businessman with utility or maybe because you hadn't shot him in the face... or maybe Mycroft Holmes cared about you and couldn't bring himself to treat you like a monster for ending the life of the man who almost destroyed you. "Right. Well, anyway, I have my first Obstetric appointment tomorrow. I'll be getting my first ultrasound of the grape parasite that will further the Holmes' family line. Would you like me to send you a scan?"

"Certainly. I'll text you the Oklahoma address so you can send a copy to Mother and Father."

"Okay... Brother Mine. Goodbye."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dr. White was a woman in her early thirties who had been an Ob/Gyn for about 5 years. She wasn't younger than you, but something about her made you feel old. Maybe the way she emphasized the possible complications with a second pregnancy in a woman approaching 35, or the fact that you felt very rundown and uncomfortable in that cold room by yourself. She did her best to make you feel better, but she was worried about the fact that Arianna had to be delivered by emergency C-section.

"It's, uh, a tilted pelvis. Doesn't really affect anything else in my life, but childbirth is pretty much always going to be cesarean." You responded. 

"Ah, that's why the pelvic exam was such a tight fit. Barely got that speculum into ya." She teased and you gave an uncomfortable smile in response. "Okay, well, why don't we put some jelly on that belly and check out our new friend?"

Your phone rang as Dr. White prepared the ultrasound machine. "Your Obstetrician is fairly young, don't you think?"

"Mycroft, if you wanted to participate in this exam, you should have gotten on a plane."

There was a like chuckle through the phone. "Would you be averse to video calling? Assuming you don't find the idea too invasive."

"Okay. Give me a second to sign in to Skype." You hung up and smiled at Dr. White as you hit the Skype app. "My... almost brother-in-law... the baby's uncle. He wants to be here for me."

"Oh? Where would he have to fly from?"

"London."

"Is that where daddy is, too?"

"Probably. Maybe not. I don't keep tabs on him, anymore." You said as the Skype picture came up. Mycroft was in his home office. "You know, I understood you watching me when I was in London, but you don't have the kind of access here that you have there."

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about, y/n." 

"Hello, uncle!" Dr. White smiled brightly at the phone. "We're about to get the first glimpse at your little niece or nephew!"

"Go on, then." You switched to the back camera and pointed it at the ultrasound screen. 

"Can you see, Mycroft?"

"Yes."

The gel Dr. White put on your lower abdomen was cold, just like the room, but it warmed up as she spread it across your belly with the transducer. She moved it across your belly, searching for the fetus. "There it is! Looks to be about 10 weeks along." She said, pointing at a small misshapen bean on the screen. You couldn't help the tears that sprung up in your eyes at seeing your baby. "Oh, don't cry!"

"Sorry." 

"I was talkin' to him!" She laughed. You'd been too focused on the screen and your own teary demeanor to notice the misty look that had taken over Mycroft's normally icy features. 

"Look at you!" You cooed. "You're getting all emotional."

"Tell no one." He demanded, softly. 

"Wouldn't dream." You said, looking back to the ultrasound screen.

~~~~~~

A month later, you were working in Evidence for Freeport Police Department's Evidence lock-up. They'd been happy to have you but you weren't sure they were still going to feel that way once you'd told them about the baby. So, you still hadn't told your new bosses when the phone in the cage ran, the extension flashing as the number for the reception desk. "Evidence. This is Murphy."

"Hey, I have a visitor for you. British lady, real pretty." 

You weren't expecting anyone, but you shrugged. "Okay. Send her down to the Evidence waiting room." By the time you locked down the Evidence cage and headed into waiting room, she was already there; the skinny woman with the perky boobs stood gracefully on her shiny black stiletto heels. Her brunette hair was in a messy up-do, but you could tell that it was intentionally messy. You had to stop yourself from protectively covering your belly as you took a nervous step toward The Woman.

"You know, when I heard Sherlock had fallen for an American, I was expecting Scarlet Johanson or perhaps that mousy actress that doesn't smile..." She turned her eyes on you and you felt small and completely insignificant under her gaze. "...from the vampire movies. But no, it seems Sherlock went for the Melissa McCarthy type, didn't he?"

"I... I don't know where you're getting your news, I-Irene, but Sherlock and I are over. He's all yours if you want to-"

"Oh, he never stopped being mine, sweetheart, but I can't go back to London. Everyone may think I'm dead, but there's CCTV everywhere. Mycroft Holmes would have me jailed in no time." Irene ran an analytical gaze down your body. "You know, I'm glad you ran away. I wouldn't have been able to meet you had you stayed at Baker Street. Never would have known about Sherlock's fat fetish."

"Look, I'm not threat to you, Miss Adler. I  _left_  Sherlock, for real this time. We aren't getting back together."

"Why  _did_  you leave? Did he say something you didn't like?" You held your tongue. If Irene Adler didn't know about the baby, you weren't going to tell her. "Let me guess. He told you that he wasn't the marrying type; that he was never going to put a ring on that plump little finger."

"You're very clever, Irene. It's no wonder you were an asset to Moriarty's empire."

Her eyes sparkled. "Oh, 'were'? Have you heard the news? Hastag: Moriarty lives."

You nodded. "I'm sure there is a lot of work in the US for a Consulting Criminal. You here finding clients for him?"

"My current status in Moriarty's criminal enterprise is no business of yours and definitely not something I'll be discussing in a police station." The Woman stepped toward the door. "I've got my eyes on you, Detective, and I would keep your head down, if I were you. It's so easy to get your hands on a high-powered sniper rifle in this country."

As soon as the Woman walked out, you ran for the Evidence lockup, grabbing your cell phone from your desk and dialing Mycroft's number. "Sister Dear, what a surprise."

"Irene Adler's not dead!"

"What?! Why would you assume-"

"I already had my suspicions, but I just saw her, Mycroft! She was just here, at the freakin' precinct! She was very threatening, talking about keeping my head down because she's got a fucking sniper. I'm afraid to leave the building."

"Does she know about the baby?"

You let out a small sigh of relief and shook your head. "No. She just thinks I'm fat. Thank God for this uniform, it's very unflattering. What do I do, Mycroft?" You spoke rapidly.

"Don't worry. Stay in the precinct. Finish out your shift, then wait for me. I'll be there as soon as possible."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ten hours later, four hours past the end of your shift, Mycroft arrived in the reception area of the PD. Sherlock entered on his heels. "What's  _he_  doing here?"

"He followed me." 

"I arrived before you. I hardly think that qualifies as 'following', Mycroft." Sherlock said, standing stiffly in front of you.

"I didn't ask for you." You looked down, crossing your arms over your chest. "How'd he know?"

"Apparently, he saw my bags." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"His overnight bag was packed for Florida weather. You are the only one he knows in the Sunshine State." Sherlock's eyes popped down to your stomach, which you dropped your hands down to cover. "Mycroft refused to explain the situation, so I've only been able to deduce that you are in danger. Obviously not to do with your police work since you are stuck watching over decades worth of evidence."

"You don't care." You shook your head. "You're just curious about what would pull Mycroft to my side." You chuckled. "You think it might be Moriarty."

"Nonsense. Moriarty is dead." He answered, quickly.

"Well, good. We agree. It's not worth your time. There is nothing in Florida that is worth your time."

 

 

"That isn't true." Sherlock looked away from you as he cleared his throat. "Obviously, something dangerous is happening here and danger is worth my time."

"Well, I wouldn't be in danger if you'd let The Woman die in the Middle East." You spat.

Sherlock's eyebrows dropped. "Irene Adler?"

"Yes." You let out an angry exhalation. "Yes, Sherlock. You  _other_  ex-girlfriend, Irene."

"She was never my-"

You took a deep breath, rage filling you. "Sherlock. Stress and... and anger are bad for the baby, so I'm going to try to put this in the simplest terms. You are the problem here, you are the reason The Woman came to me. So, shut the hell up and let Mycroft help me."

Sherlock stiffened again as Mycroft looked superior and wrapped an arm around your shoulder. "I've surveyed the area around the police station. If she does have a sniper, he is not in place now. Let's get you someplace safe."

"Not the house. I don't want to put Mum and Dad in danger."

"Oh, this is ridiculous. Irene is not a danger to you. She's-"

"Says the man who thinks heroin is just fine." You snapped. "Irene Adler is a terrible, manipulative arm of Moriarty's empire, which still exists  _somehow_. She is horrible, dangerous, and happens to be hopelessly in love with you. My only saving grace here is that you didn't divulge to her just how serious you and I had become during your late-night texting conversations, and yes of course I know about them. Don't insult me." 

"Why didn't you say anything?" Sherlock asked, quietly.

"I wasn't positive it was her back in London, but I knew she couldn't come back to London if it  _were_  her. You'd never be able to see or touch her again, so why  _not_  allow you your little fantasy?"

"y/n..."

"Go home, Sherlock. There's nothing here for you... except Irene." You said, sadly.

Sherlock watched as his pregnant ex-fiancée left the room with his brother. He wouldn't admit missing you, never cop to the stacks of handwritten letters he burned every week. He wouldn't tell anyone about the soft lullaby he'd taken to composing, only when he was certain Mrs. Hudson was out, of course. He wouldn't allow you glimpses of his regret because you were right to leave. More than that, more than the question of your rightful rage, you were simply safer in America. Irene tracking you down was a fluke, an anomaly set in motion by Sherlock's own careless, inebriated texting the day you fled the tarmac. You, and the child, would be safer in small town USA.


	7. Tea with T.

The hotel Irene was staying in was the most lavish available and, of course, not being paid for by her. Sherlock found it, and her, easily. He used his knuckles to rap on the hotel door and pulled his coat tight around him; an embrace readying him for the sight of The Woman. She smiled when she opened the door in nothing but a bra and panties. "Sherlock!" She said, delightedly.

"Stow the pleasantries. You know why I'm here." He pushed past her into the room. She chuckled and closed the door behind him. "What are you doing here, Irene?"

"Well, I had to see her, didn't I?" She sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, looking up at him happily. "She called you?"

"Is that relevant?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course it is. You've both told me how  _over_  your relationship is, but if you're the first call she makes when she's scared, then-"

"She called Mycroft, not me." He interrupted. "I followed him because I deduced that she'd been threatened. Really, Irene, if you wanted to see me, you could've just called."

"No. I wanted to see her... in person. Those pictures must've been a good angle because she's much plumper when you're right in front of her." Irene smiled, cruelly. "DI Murphy, the divorced detective who slept her way to the top, if you believe the papers. You  _do_  have a type, don't you, Cheekbones?"

"Do I?"

Irene stood, placing her hand on his chest, which he stepped away from. "Sexually aggressive women with ambition."

"She's not like that. Magnussen lied. She is  _nothing_  like you." He defended.

"Oh, I assumed. I mean, if you were getting all your needs met, Sherlock, you would've lost my number."

"He certainly should have." Mycroft's voice called out as the door opened. Irene sighed, deeply, as the elder Holmes stepped into her room.

"I suppose I'll have to flee." She mused.

Mycroft smirked. "I'd greatly enjoy watching you try. You know, it  _is_  incredibly easy to obtain a powerful rifle in this country... especially if one wears a badge." Sherlock looked out the large window next to him and caught the glint of the sun on a sniper scope. "You can try to run or you can come peacefully."

"Would she do it?" Irene turned to Sherlock. "Would she  _kill_  me, Sherlock?"

He took a deep breath, turning from the window to look at The Woman. "Yes. You have established yourself as a threat to them. She won't hesitate." 

"Them?" She gasped a little. "I see. She's not fat, is she?"

"She won't hesitate and she won't miss, Miss Adler. Will you come peacefully back to London?" Mycroft asked.

"I suppose I don't have much of a choice, now, do I?" She walked to the coat rack and pulled her coat down. "A baby. No wonder she ran away home. You are not father material."

"I am perfectly aware." Sherlock responded.

"That's why you chased her off." Irene guessed.

"There is no notion of safety while in my proximity."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You truly are an imbecile." He mused, softly, walking Irene out of the hotel room.

"What now?" Sherlock almost growled.

"You cannot be so blind or stupid. You  _are_  my brother, aren't you?" Mycroft said, hitting the elevator button with his umbrella. "Any danger she may be in from her association with you, it doesn't cease just because you chase her away across the Atlantic. No, it continues with every beat of that child's heart. Is she not safer around you, around me and the Watsons?"

Sherlock sighed, deeply. "Mycroft, do silence your judgments. I don't have time to explain myself or my justifications to you."

"Oh, then you've thought this through?"

"More than you expect I have."

"The mother of your child is coming down from that building with a sniper rifle slung across her back. She is, honestly, the most amazing woman I've had the honor to meet. Not extraordinary, by most means, but much more than you deserve, you idiot."

Sherlock held his tongue until they arrive in the courtyard of the hotel and Mycroft pushed Irene into the back of a Towncar. As he looked over the top of the rented Lincoln, his eyes fell on y/n. His petite dream was wearing skintight black clothes and she did, indeed, have a rifle hung from her back and her bump was just able to be seen from across the way. She reminded him a bit of Mary on the night she shot him; dangerous, beautiful, and maternal, all at once. He swallowed. "I can't do it, Mycroft. I love her, but I cannot be what she deserves. I can't be the father to that child."

"You  _are_  the father, Sherlock. If you wanted to avoid furthering our genetics, you should have worn a condom."

"Condoms are not the most effective form of contraception, Mycroft. A properly executed pull-out is-"

"Well, you obviously didn't execute properly, Brother Mine." Mycroft sighed and directed his attention back to the approaching woman. "Your options are clear, I should think."

Sherlock nodded. His options were clear. He could beg forgiveness, admit that the notion of fatherhood had terrified him into chasing her away, admit to missing her and beg her to put the ring back on and come back to London. Or, he could let her stay in her hometown, raise the child with the help of her family in the relative safety there. He could continue missing her, knowing she would be safe. Sherlock gave a last look to his warrior ex, then climbed into the Lincoln next to Irene.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I suppose I  _did_  tell him to go home, didn't I?" You pondered as you sat on Skype with Mary, who was nursing little Rosamund.

"He's miserable, you know. He spends all of his time on cases. More than before and he takes cases he used to toss. He's tryin' to keep his mind off you."

"He's trying to entice Moriarty... or the puppeteer, rather."

"You think that's why he pushed you off, maybe? Keep you out of Moriarty's way?"

"Moriarty is dead. That's just... that's just how it is, Mary. There is no way he survived that. Anyway, if the options are 'take care of myself and the baby here without him' or 'give up the baby to be with him' there's no  actual question there."

"Oh, I know, and so does Sherlock." Mary sighed and pulled Rosie off of her nipple. "Look, you could come back. You'd be safest here, you know. Me and John and Mycroft and Lestrade and even dear Mrs. Hudson, we'd all take care of you."

"I don't need to be taken care of! But that's not- I don't want you and Greg and Mycroft and everyone to take care of me. But I want Sherlock to want to. He wanted to marry me, but he... he was going to ask me to do something I absolutely cannot do. It just... It doesn't matter." You finished as Rosie started to fuss. "I'm gonna let you go. I'm exhausted."

"TTFN, luv." Mary said as she reached forward to sign off of Skype. 

You leaned back, your hands on your belly. You'd just begun to notice movements, kicks, and of course they increased as soon as you decided to lie down and rest. "Kid, I need sleep. Your dad's bullshit put me through the wringer the last few days and I need you to be calm for a few hours." The baby responded with another kick. "Thanks. Nice to know you're just as contrary as Sherlock." You groaned and turned over on your side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You weren't very excited about walking onto the campus of the local community college the first day you went. After graduating from Cambridge, you weren't happy to be back at school in the first place and definitely not a community college, but you needed the Criminal Justice courses that didn't transfer to America. It didn't take you long to come to the conclusion that small town community college and big time university really weren't much different at their core. Just a bunch of people trying to better their lives. You fit in easily, even with your steadily growing stomach.

"Hello!" The woman who approached had long dark hair and a bright smile. "Excuse me, I'm a bit lost. I'm looking for the bookstore. Can you help me?" Her accent was hard to place

Something in the woman's face gave you pause, but you shook it away. "Yeah. It's actually in the B Hall, where the coffee shop is. I'll take you."

"Oh, thank you! And you have to let me buy you a cuppa."

"So, where are you from?" You asked as you walked. "I mean, obviously, you're British."

"Oh! Upstate. I mean, I'm Northern, but I spent a bit of time in London. Everyone's gotta spend a stretch of time in London, right? It's a rite of passage."

You nodded. The accent wasn't right. There was definitely some Northern in her accent but not London. It sounded more a mix of Welsh and Yorkshire, but you weren't about to call the woman out on it. "So, a transfer or an exchange?"

"Oh, no. Came over for a job and decided to go back to school while I'm here." She smiled brightly. "Ever been?"

"To London? Yeah. I actually lived there for about half of my life. I was a bobby. A detective inspector, really, but who's counting?" 

"What are you doing back here, then? Oh, that sounded judgmental. Sorry. Jus' meant, you musta worked hard fer that job."

* _And that was a bit posh there. Stilted, though, like the words sounded different in her head.*_ "My ex-boyfriend got me fired from Scotland Yard. After we broke up, I figured it was time to come home."

"He got you fired? How long did you stay with him afterward?"

_*There's that Welsh again.*_  "Uh... far too long, actually. No accounting for love. We were... we meshed well, so... I'm y/n, by the way."

"Tiffany Marsh. Pleasure." said the brunette, offering her hand as the two of you entered B Hall.

You took it and smiled, before pointing down the corridor to the bookstore. "Barnes and Noble, right down there."

"Thank you! How about that cuppa?"

You bit your lip then nodded. She gave you an off feeling, but you couldn't see the problem with a cup of tea with a new student. "Yeah, all right."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tiffany Marsh, green eyed brunette Yorkie working on an IT degree, became a weekly fixture in your life, learning about each other every Friday over a cup of tea before your classes. Her accent kept slipping, and the little bits of her background she shared didn't seem to mesh with what you deduced of her and part of you thought that might be intentional. 

It was the almost the end of the semester when Tiffany insisted they get tea at a small tea room on the outskirts of town, well before classes began, in preemptive celebration of semester exams. The conversation moved seamlessly from exams to the baby to Sherlock and the more she asked about Sherlock, the more things clicked into place in your head. 

"So, do you really think Sherlock would have made you get an abortion if you'd stayed? He doesn't seem quite  _that_ heartless. Seems ever so emotional, actually."

"I'm sure you would know better than I." You answered, taking a sip of your tea. "He  _is_ your brother, isn't he?"

Tiffany smiled. "How did you figure it?"

"You've got his eyes. The green contacts are nice, but I can see the blue around the edges. They either weren't made for you or they were poorly done. Your hair is the same color as his and you've got a distinctive shape to your lips. You look just like him when you smile."

"I do love it when Sherlock smiles. Did he smile a lot with you?"

You scoffed. "Most of the time, but it really did depend on the day." You licked your lips, nervously. "So, what's your real name?"

"Who says it's not 'Tiffany'?"

"I've met the Holmes family. Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, and yes, I know Sherlock is actually 'William', but even if you were actually named 'Tiffany', that's not what you're called."

"Eurus. It's Gree-"

"Greek. God of the East Wind. That makes so much sense, doesn't it?" 

Eurus was silent for a minute before she smiled. "I do love this part of the game so much."

"What's that?"

"You're trying to figure me out."

You shook your head. "No. I've already figured you out."

"Have you?" Eurus asked, incredulously.

You chuckled, your hand rubbing your stomach. The baby was reacting to the stress and it wasn't happy. "Sherlock, he claims to be a sociopath, 'high-functioning'... but he isn't, not really. He's a little  _off_  but you, you're an  _actual_  sociopath. An actual sociopath and Sherlock doesn't remember you. He would've told me if he had a sister, we've talked about our families  _at length_ , so you must've been taken away when you guys were really young. Taken away somewhere, very isolated. A prison." You swallowed. "For someone so young to be taken away to a prison, locked away for so long, you must've done something horrible. Who did you kill?"

Eurus smiled, brightly. "They couldn't prove I killed him. Couldn't find him. They  _could_  prove that I burned down the family estate." She leaned forward, rubbing her hand over your belly. "I like you. You're bright and you've made me an auntie, or you will... if I let you live."

You chuckled, ruefully, your head starting to swim. "I'm such an idiot. I left to get away from Sherlock's baggage and it just followed me over, but now... I have no one beside me to help. I'm so dumb."

"Oh, that's fine. I'll take you home." You blinked at her before you lost consciousness. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"On to our next experiment. I want to know which you find preferable, physical pain or emotional." A light suddenly shined on a cell across the room. Y/n was tied to the chair, gagged. Hope pervaded her expression as she looked at the men. "The floor is rigged to shock. You can take off your shoes and socks and walk over, save her or... You could tell her the truth, Sherlock. All of it."

Sherlock looked at the floor. He could handle being tasered, assuming it wasn't any different than the standard taser gun. He'd experimented with different voltage and amperage. "Sherlock?" John questioned his friend's hesitance.

"I can make it." He whispered.

"Sherlock." The word left John's mouth like a scold. "Just tell her. It's Y/n. She probably already knows."

"Not this." Sherlock whispered. Yes, Sherlock knew what Eurus wanted him to divulge. He remembered her rhetoric about sex earlier. He looked across the cell and caught Y/n's tear-washed y/e/c eyes. "I had sex with Irene. Before I even met you, when I was supposedly dead, before I immersed myself in the task of dismantling Moriarty's empire, I met with her in Belarus. You weren't my first." Sherlock looked down, uncomfortable with the betrayal in her eyes. "And it wasn't just the once... and it didn't stop just because I found you. I took weekly train trips to see her when I was with Janine. I had no business at Cambridge, I was seeing her. I wrote several of my letters to you while on the train home. Those trips became bi-monthly events once you moved into Baker Street. While you were helping me get back to full strength and reeling from the loss of the job you felt was your purpose; while you were being respectful waiting for what you thought was my first time, I cheated on you repeatedly, lied to you and manipulated you. I broke my promise. I broke every promise I made you."

"So, emotional pain is preferable. Interesting. The floor is safe." Eurus announced. Sherlock ran across the floor and pulled the ropes from her. Y/n pulled away, angrily, pulling the gag from her mouth.

"Don't touch me." She growled, standing. "Irene Adler?! Doesn't that just make  _so_  much sense! A manipulator, a sociopath. A fucking whore! Of course, you cheated! Of course!" She kicked the chair and it went flying. Sherlock stood, quietly. John and Mycroft were both looking a mix of angry and disappointed, but Y/n was just angry as she poked at Sherlock's chest. "I lost  _everything_  because of you, everything I had, and I made myself be okay with it because I thought we had something real. I  _begged_  you to tell me if it wasn't real,  _begged_ you to tell me that you weren't earnest. Why do you have such a difficult time with the truth?"

Sherlock swallowed, then turned to John. "I'm a liar. It's what I do." He sighed. "I  _am_  sorry, though, Y/n."

"No, you're not. You don't know the feeling." She shook her head. "What now, Eurus?" A door opened and the quartet proceeded through it into the next room, a plain grey room with a screen on each of the four walls and a white square in the middle of the floor.

"Hey, sis, don't mean to complain, but this one's empty. What happened? Did you run out of ideas?" Sherlock called out. 

All four screens flicked to life, Eurus looking out at the room. "It's not empty, Sherlock. You've still got the gun, haven't you? I  _told_  you you'd need it, because only two can play the next game. Just two of you go on from here; your choice." The smile she gave the camera was almost sickening. "It's make-your-mind-up time. Whose help do you need the most- Y/n, John or Mycroft?" Y/n took a deep breath as Mycroft frowned at John. "It's a double elimination round. You choose  _one_  and kill the others. You have to choose family, friend or lover. Mycroft, the mother of your child, or John Watson?"

Sherlock turned to face the others as the lights turned red and Moriarty came onscreen to loudly go, "Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick."'

"Eurus, enough!" Mycroft demanded.

The lights changed back to white and Eurus appeared on the screen. "Not yet, I think." She smiled. "But nearly. Remember, there's a plane in the sky and it's not going to land."

Mycroft rubbed his hand down his face and stepped away from the wall. "Well?"

"Well, what?" 

"We're not actually going to discuss this, are we? I'm sorry, Dr. Watson, you're a fine man in many respects. Make your goodbyes and shoot him." Mycroft paused for a minute before reiterating. " _Shoot_  him!"

Y/n swallowed, watching as John stepped onto the white square. "What?"

"Shoot Dr. Watson. There's no question who has to continue from here. It's us; you and me. Whatever lies ahead requires brainpower, Sherlock, not sentiment. Don't prolong his agony; shoot him."

"Do I get a say in this?" John asked. Mycroft turned to him. 

"Today, we are soldiers. Soldiers die for their country. I regret, Dr. Watson, that privilege is now yours and DI Murphy's."

John glared at the taller man. "Shit. He's right." John turned to Sherlock, whose eyes twitched at the words. "He is, in fact, right."

Y/n stepped forward, pushing John a little out of the way. "Come on. Get on with it, Sherlock." She said, squaring herself off in front of the man and tightening her ponytail. "Elimination number one, right here."

"What?"

"I wasn't brought here to survive, Sherlock. I was brought here for Eurus to see your reaction when I die. So, just... go on, then. Make it a clean headshot; I want an open casket and, uh, if you do shoot John, wait until he's finished cutting the baby out of me."

"Excuse me?" John exclaimed. Y/n bent down and pulled a knife from her boot, handing it to the doctor.

"I know you're not an obstetric surgeon, but it'll be pretty straightforward once I'm dead. Use the scar from my first C-section as a guide. I'm 28 weeks and she's already 5 pounds, so she might survive if you get her out of me before my blood goes bad." She spoke quickly, afraid the words might not come if she didn't push them out.

"Make it swift. No need to prolong their agony. Get it over with... and we can get to work." Mycroft said, softly. Sherlock looked down, not even raising the weapon. Mycroft scoffed, then chuckled with no humor. "God! I should have expected this. Pathetic. You always were the slow one... the idiot. That's why I've always despised you. You shame us all. You shame the family name. Now, for once in your life, do the right thing. Put these stupid little people out of all of our misery.  _Shoot_ them!"

"Stop it." Sherlock said, quietly, not looking at his brother.

"Look at them. Look at  _him._  What is he?" John tried to not feel dread of the coming words. "Nothing more than a distraction; a little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You'll find another, and  _her_? You didn't even want her when you had her, evidenced by your forays into the domain of The Woman. I'm surprised you spent enough time with her to get up the duff."

"Please, for God's sake, just stop it."

"Why?"

Sherlock turned to him, but didn't look at him. "Because, on balance, even your Lady Bracknell was more convincing." Mycroft looked a bit disappointed as he raised his eyebrows. Sherlock didn't look at John as he turned to his friend. "Ignore everything he just said. He's being kind. He's trying to make it easy for me to kill him, which is why this is going to be so much harder." Sherlock finished, pointing the gun at Mycroft.

"Couldn't just volunteer, like me. Had to go the insulting route?"

Mycroft turned his smile from Y/n to Sherlock. "You said you  _liked_  my Lady Bracknell."

"Sherlock. Don't." John whispered. 

"It's not your decision, Dr. Watson." Mycroft turned his attention back to Sherlock. "Not in the face, please. I've promised my brain to the Royal Society."

"Where would you suggest?

"Well... I suppose there is a heart  _somewhere_  inside me." Mycroft redid the top button of his shirt and straightened his tie. "I don't imagine it's much of a target, but... why don't we try for that?"

John stepped up next to Mycroft and held a hand out to stay Sherlock. "I won't allow this." He said, softly.

"This is my fault. Moriarty." Mycroft responded.

"Moriarty?" Y/n and Sherlock asked.

"Her Christmas treat: five minutes' conversation with Jim Moriarty five years ago."

"What did they discuss?"

"Five minutes' conversation... unsupervised." Mycroft finished with a shrug as Sherlock lowered the pistol a bit. John stepped out of the way as Sherlock sighed and aimed the gun again. "Goodbye, brother mine. No flowers." Mycroft tucked his arms behind his back. "My request."

"Jim Moriarty thought you'd make this choice. He was  _so_  excited." Eurus watched with bated breath.

The lights went red again as Moriarty reappeared on the screens. "And here we are, at the end of the line. Holmes killing Holmes. This is where I get off." Moriarty bid adieu with a grin.

As the lights went back to white, Sherlock looked almost through his brother in anger. "Five minutes." He said, tightly, angrily. "It took her just  _five minutes_  to do all of this to us." He finished, his hand trembling. His eyes shot to John, who immediately began to analyze everything Sherlock was doing. Sherlock's eyes shot back to Mycroft, then to Y/n, who knew immediately. It was Sherlock's turn to play. "Well, not on my watch." He said, lowering the gun.

"What are you doing?" Eurus asked.

He didn't turn away from them, simply answering, "A moment ago, a brave man asked to be remembered. I'm remembering the governor." He placed the pistol under his chin and began to count. "Ten."

"No, no. Sherlock." Eurus said. Y/n kept her eyes on Sherlock, but she could see the looks of shock and horror on Mycroft and John's faces from her peripheral vision.

"Nine, eight..."

"You can't!" Eurus shouted. 

"Seven."

"You don't know about Redbeard yet." Eurus said through the speakers. Sherlock dropped his left hand and reached out to touch Y/n's belly for the first time as he continued to hold the muzzle to his chin with the other.

"Six..."

"Sherlock!" Eurus shouted.

"Five..."

"Sherlock, stop that at once!" Eurus shouted as a dart shot out of the wall and hit Sherlock in the back of his head. His hand jerked away from Y/n's belly to grab the inflicting object. 

"Four..." The sound of two more darts coming out of the wall hit their ears and Y/n and John both felt pain in the back of their necks. "Three, two..."


End file.
